1. The Rival—Prelude

In a distant land, where peace is a draft,

Two minds have been forged by a shared craft.

One seeks to rule through force,

By his ideals trapped.

The other feels no remorse,

By her ordeals shaped.

Their paths converge, their visions manifest,

Yet to the powers beyond it’s just another test.

The silence in the Runarfang's War Crafts Hall was thick, heavy with the frustration of numerous young minds. Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of sunlight piercing the high window, illuminating the massive strategic map laid across the central table. The map depicted a siege, a seemingly unbreakable defense, and the grim casualty projections for any frontal assault. Even the Proctor paced around the hall, the problem a notorious challenge.

A girl with intense, focused eyes chewed on her lip, her brow furrowed in concentration, the weave of potential movements a tangled knot in her mind. Across from her, a few students whispered in hushed, defeated tones. None of them had a viable solution.

Then, a sharp voice cut through the hanging tension. "I did it!"

All heads snapped towards a boy with a gaze too serious for his age. He sat hunched over his own miniature map. He wasn't looking at the map, though; his piercing eyes were fixed on the far wall.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The Proctor stopped pacing. "Drakon? You believe you have a solution to the Basalt Bastion Stalemate problem?" His tone held a mixture of skepticism and a flicker of hope.

Drakon pushed his map forward, his long agile fingers tracing lines with an almost eerie precision. "The trick, you see, isn't the big wall or relocating around. It's the water inside, from the river here and under the ground, and their arcane wards—that's all connected to a singular spot right here. If you hit it from here and from there really hard with might and magic at the same time," he tapped a point on the map, "it all goes poof! And if you add pressure from here, even fewer people die, like maybe seventy fewer than the problem allows to lose, and the fight's over. A week maybe, or less, but definitely not the months as the book suggests."

A collective gasp went through the room. The frowning girl facepalmed over the boy's uncanny approach. The solution wasn't just plausible; it was elegant. The Proctor leaned over the map, his eyes widening as he followed Drakon's proposed vectors. He ran a hand over his balding head, a slow, approving smile spreading across his face. "Remarkable, Drakon. Truly remarkable! You've not only solved it, you've improved upon the masterwork. One can tell you must truly relish the intricacies of conflict, the art of war, to unravel such a knot at your age."

Drakon looked up, his gaze meeting the Proctor's. His eyes, sharp with concentration. "I don't," he said, his voice firm. "I actually hate war. I can fix these puzzles alright. I can see how things move, where they're weak, and how to break them. But I don't understand why people are fighting in the first place."

The Proctor's smile faltered. He cleared his throat, a hint of steel entering his voice. "It is not a tactician's role to question the mandates of rulers, young Drakon. Our duty is to understand the mechanisms of conflict, to provide the means for victory. To delve into the why could lead a tactician to a place of no return, a path where understanding supplants loyalty."

Drakon held his gaze, an unnerving intensity in his young eyes, a faint, knowing flicker passing through them. "But if you really get something," he gasped, "how can you not wonder why?"

The Proctor simply stared back, a cold silence descending once more, far heavier than before. He knew, in that moment, that this young, brilliant mind was already on a path few dared to tread. And he was not sure he could avert his descent.

Winters passed…