Three days later, the "Bell of Summons" rang throughout the Vileth Estate.
It was a deep, brassy sound that signaled a mandatory gathering in the Great Hall. Azrakar followed the stream of guards and disciples, keeping his head down and blending into the back of the crowd.
On the high dais stood Lord Varick Vileth. He was a man who looked like he had been carved from the mountain itself—broad-shouldered, with a beard of iron-grey and eyes that held no warmth. Beside him stood the clan elders and his primary heir, a man in his early twenties who radiated a Silver-rank Aura so bright it made the air hum.
"The Border-Barons have crossed the Rubicon," Varick's voice boomed, echoing off the high stone arches. "The King has called for his vassals to secure the Silver-Vein Pass. The Vileth Clan will not be found wanting."
A roar of approval went up from the Iron and Silver-rank disciples. To them, war was a chance for glory, for rank advancement, and for the spoils of the fallen.
"We will send two hundred men," Varick continued. "One hundred Iron-rank knights, fifty scouts, and fifty auxiliary guards. Captain Harl will lead the Vanguard."
Azrakar watched Harl, who stood at the base of the dais. The Captain looked grim. He knew what "auxiliary guards" meant—they were the fodder, the ones who would carry the supplies and die in the first wave of arrows to shield the more valuable "real" knights.
That is my ticket, Azrakar thought.
As the meeting broke up and the various leaders began to pick their units, Azrakar made his move. He didn't go to his father. That would be suspicious. Instead, he waited until Captain Harl was walking back toward the training grounds.
"Captain," Azrakar called out, running to catch up. He looked out of breath, his face flushed.
Harl stopped and looked down at the boy. "Back to your books, Azrakar. This isn't a game of poems. This is blood and mud."
"I want to go," Azrakar said, his voice "trembling" with a mix of fear and feigned bravado. "In the Archives... I read about the Silver-Vein Pass. I know the old maps. The ones the clan hasn't looked at in a hundred years. I can be a guide. Or a runner. Please, Captain. I don't want to stay in the dust forever."
Harl frowned. "You're ten years old, Azrakar. You're a Bronze-rank. You'll be dead before we hit the first encampment."
"But I'm small!" Azrakar insisted. "I can move through the brush where the knights can't. And if I stay here... Kaelen will just keep..." He let his voice trail off, looking at the ground.
Harl's expression shifted. He knew about Kaelen's bullying. He saw the "stubbornness" in Azrakar's eyes again—the same stubbornness that had made the boy get up thirty times in the training pit.
"You'd rather face a Baron's mercenaries than your own cousin?" Harl asked, a hint of a smile touching his scarred lips.
"The mercenaries don't live in the house with me," Azrakar replied.
Harl let out a short, bark-like laugh. "Fine. You want to see the world, whelp? I'll put you in the auxiliary unit as a 'Map-Runner.' But if you die, don't expect me to carry your body back to your father. I'll leave you for the crows."
"Thank you, Captain," Azrakar said, bowing deeply.
As Harl walked away, Azrakar's face went cold. The "Map-Runner" position was perfect. It meant he would be given a light horse, a degree of mobility, and a reason to be away from the main camp for long periods.
The Silver-Vein Pass, he thought, his mind conjuring up his memories of the future. In the Great Decay, that pass was known as the 'Gully of Screams.' Not because of the war, but because of what lies buried beneath the silver mines. An ancient Mana-Well that was capped during the Golden Era because the mages couldn't control it.
To the Vileths, this was a mission of duty and silver. To Azrakar Vileth, it was a journey to claim his first True Catalyst.
"The slow burn is over," he whispered to the wind. "The fire is moving to the mountains."