The mist on the road dissipated as the sun rose, revealing the distant towers of Arven—a colossus of stone and iron that rose against the horizon. The walls, wide enough to accommodate two carriages side by side, cast long shadows over the frozen ground. Damon slowed his horse, observing the main gate as he approached.

Arven was not just a city. It was a bastion. The kind of place that seemed to have been born not from the will of its founders, but from the very need to resist. The towers gleamed under the pale sun, and banners bearing the coat of arms of the Leviathan Order—a winged serpent encircling a sword—waved slowly in the wind.

The activity around was intense. Merchants, soldiers, entire caravans awaited authorization to enter. Damon dismounted, leading his horse by the reins. The animal snorted, impatient with the smell of iron and smoke that hung in the air.

When he reached the shadow of the gate, a group of knights intercepted him. Their armor gleamed with impeccable polish; their lances, aligned and firm, blocked the passage as if they were part of the wall itself.

The knight at the front—a tall man, with his helmet under his arm and his face marked by battle scars—stepped forward. His voice was deep, disciplined.

"Identify yourself."

Damon looked up, maintaining a neutral expression. "Damon of Mirath."

The knight frowned. "Mirath? There is no registered house with that name. What brings you to Arven?"

"Training."

The answer came simple, direct.

"Training?" The man tilted his head slightly, studying him. "This city is not a haven for wanderers, young man. This is a territory of military order. No foreigner crosses our walls without purpose."

Damon maintained his firm posture. Then, calmly, he reached into his overcoat and withdrew a folded parchment, sealed with red wax—the seal bore the symbol of a dragon intertwined with a sword. He held it out.

The knight took the document, and for a moment, his hardened gaze softened with surprise. He broke the seal and silently read the short lines. When he looked back up at Damon, his tone had changed.

"A letter of recommendation…" he murmured. "Signed by Caerth, the Master Swordsman of the Black Moonlight…"

The other knights exchanged discreet glances. The expression of those who recognized the name—and the weight it carried.

The man returned the parchment, now with a touch of restrained respect. "Forgive my suspicion, Damon of Mirath. It's not every day that someone arrives with a letter from one of the Four Masters."

Damon simply nodded. "Understandable."

The knight took a step back and raised his hand in a gesture of command. The spears were lowered, opening a path. "Enter. And welcome to Arven."

Damon thanked him with a slight nod and rode his horse through. The shadow of the gate enveloped him for a few moments—and then he emerged into the city.

'To think that old man had such a reputation... one of the four masters? Damn, that's big, isn't it?' Damon thought.

Arven was a labyrinth of living stone. The streets were wide, lined with drainage canals and paved with smooth blocks that reflected the light. The sound of hammers from the forges echoed in the distance, mixed with the murmur of the markets and the rhythmic tramp of the patrols.

In the air, the smell of charcoal, heated metal, and freshly baked bread mingled in a bittersweet aroma.

The horse proceeded at a slow pace. Damon observed everything attentively: the banners hanging from the windows, the children playing with small training sticks, the apprentices running back and forth with wooden swords. There was something different there—a constant, vibrant energy, as if the entire city breathed discipline.

He led his animal to a small square near the inner gate, where a group of knights maintained a checkpoint. Before he could ask for directions, one of the guards approached him.

"Are you the man who came with the letter from Caerth?"

The voice came from a younger knight, but with an impeccable uniform and a posture almost too military for his age.

"That's me."

"The captain warned me. He told me to guide you."

The young man gestured for Damon to follow him. They walked side by side down the main street.

"Master Caerth rarely sends anyone here," the young man said, curiously, without hiding his tone of respect. "I heard that he lives isolated in the northern mountains. Many believe that he doesn't even train anyone anymore."

Damon gave a half-smile. "Not everyone he trains comes out alive."

The knight paled for a moment, unsure if it was a joke. "Well... then it's an honor to have you among us, I suppose."

They passed through the stone archway that marked the beginning of the second ring of the city—the inner district, where the barracks and apprentice quarters were located. The sounds of commerce gave way to the disciplined echo of boots and armor.

"There," said the knight, pointing to a monumental structure ahead. "The Arven Training Center. All aspiring knights go through there. Tomorrow at dawn, there will be a new round of evaluations. Take your letter and present yourself at the main gate. They will confirm your registration and conduct the examination."

"Understood."

The knight nodded, but still seemed overly curious. "May I ask you a question?"

"It depends on the question."

"Does Caerth really exist?"

The tone was not disrespectful, but one of genuine doubt. "I've heard stories about him since I was a child. They say he fought in the First March and that he lost everything—students, family, even his name—and that now he lives like a ghost in the mountains."

Damon paused for a moment, observing the movement around him: knights training in pairs, the dry sound of steel against steel, the distant sound of shouted orders.

Then he answered:

"He exists. And he still fights as if the world should pay for it."

The young knight was silent for a few seconds, perhaps unsure what to say. Finally, he simply bowed his head in respect. "Good luck on the exam, Damon of Mirath. Arven is not kind to those who arrive without a name—but if you came by his recommendation, perhaps you won't need kindness."

Damon thanked him and walked away, leading his horse to a nearby stable. He paid the daily fee and left the animal in the care of the stablehand. Then he walked through the inner streets, observing the details of the place. The gray stone buildings reflected the golden light of dusk. Every corner seemed steeped in history: coats of arms, ancient inscriptions, statues of fallen warriors.

And in the background, the central castle rose – a fortress with circular towers and walls so high they seemed to touch the clouds. The Leviathan family's coat of arms fluttered at its top, dominating the city as a constant reminder of who ruled.

Damon stopped before a stone bridge that connected the military district to the civilian area. The wind was cold and biting, but it carried the distant sound of bells calling for curfew. He rested his hands on the parapet and watched the reflection of the towers in the canal waters.

For a moment, he felt something strange – a sense of purpose. Of being exactly where he should be.

But along with it came the weight of recent memories: Caerth's ironic smile, the sharp whistle in the forest, the cold of the mana that almost killed him, and Ester's distant voice, cold and unwavering, asking if it had been worth it.

"Damn... I just wanted my Aria and my Ester now..." He said, annoyed.

Night fell over Arven like a velvet curtain. Torches were lit, and the glow of the flames danced on the stone walls. Damon found an inn near the military district – simple, but clean, enough to rest and prepare himself.

In the hall, some soldiers were talking in low voices, sharing rumors about the new tests.

"They say the commander-in-chief will be watching personally this time," one of them murmured.

"The new group is coming from the northern border. The last one didn't last three days."

Damon remained silent, drinking a glass of water. The attendant, an elderly man, observed him with curiosity. "First time in Arven?"

"First and, perhaps, last."

The old man smiled, as if he had heard that many times before. "Everyone says that. Then, nobody wants to leave anymore."

Damon simply nodded. When he went up to his room, the city was already silent. From the small window, he could see the illuminated castle, the blue and silver flag fluttering in the wind.

He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering Caerth's words before he left:

"You're going to Arven, but not to learn. You're going to be tested. If you survive, perhaps you'll discover what you truly are."

The words echoed in his mind as he lay in bed, exhausted.

And for the first time since leaving the mountains, Damon felt that the true beginning of his journey was yet to come.

The sound of bells echoed through the towers even before the first ray of sunlight cut the horizon. Arven awoke early—and brutally. The metallic clang reverberated through the walls, accompanied by the sound of boots against the stone floor, orders being shouted, and the distant roar of iron being lifted from the forges.

Damon was already on his feet. His body, accustomed to the harsh routine of Caerth, reacted before his mind. He put on his dark, leather-reinforced tunic and fastened his sword to his belt. He spent a moment observing his own reflection in the polished metal of the blade—the mark of ice that ran along the edge was still visible, a remnant of the magic he had learned to control by force.

Outside, the air was cold and clean. The morning mist was slowly dissipating, revealing the constant flow of soldiers and aspirants heading in the same direction—the great Arven Training Center. Damon followed the flow in silence, his gaze attentive.

The path there made him truly feel the heart of the military city. Rows of recruits ran through the inner courtyards, officers supervised exercises with staffs and weights. Every movement was meticulous, synchronized. Arven's discipline was not just taught—it was breathed.

The main gate of the center was open, and a man in silver armor was checking names on a list. When Damon presented the letter of recommendation, the officer's gaze hardened, but then recognition shone in his eyes.

"Letter from Caerth, Master of the Black Moonlight," he murmured, almost reverently. "Enter, Damon of Mirath. The examination will begin in moments."

The inner courtyard was vast. The gray stone floor was marked with training lines and combat circles. Around them, dozens of candidates waited, some nervous, others overly confident. Damon noticed that most wore light armor and polished swords—sons of noble families, accustomed to comfort and formal instruction.

He, in contrast, wore simple clothes, marked by travels and training in the mountains. When some glances turned towards him, there were muffled giggles.

One of the young men—blond, with an arrogant expression—looked him up and down and whispered to his companion:

"Another peasant thinking he can be a knight. He must have paid for some fake seal."

Damon turned his face and smiled, "I hope the peasant is worthy of tearing off your two arms, your two legs, and shoving it all up your ass, you son of a bitch." He said it all with a diabolical smile that made both of them shudder with fear.

"Sissies." Damon said.

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