Chronicles of the Forgotten

Freya

The barracks reeked of stale ale, unwashed bodies, and the sharp tang of a thousand different animal hides. It was not a place of glory, but a place of survival. I had a face that some had called beautiful—a gift I could not remember earning—but in this place, it felt less like a blessing and more like a vulnerability. I kept my expression neutral, my eyes sweeping over the chaos with practiced caution. A beautiful face wouldn't stop a knife in the dark.

Our small group—the leftovers—stood just inside the entrance, a collection of wide-eyed recruits in a sea of veterans. Some of them looked like they had been here for a long time. There were grizzled men with a thousand-yard stare, their armor chipped and dented. Their bodies seemed to have merged with their equipment, a testament to a life lived in constant conflict. There was even a group of men sitting at a table, drunk on what smelled like fermented grain mash, their trainee badges—the very badges that had promised us a new beginning—pinned to their tattered clothes, their faces bloated and their eyes hollow. They hadn't made it. This was their end. This was what failure looked like.

A few had found their own ways to adapt, to innovate. A woman with a single, mischievous eye sat on a makeshift barrel, her body languid and her clothes designed to show as much as possible. She was a weapon, not of steel, but of a different kind of commerce. She laughed at a man who was bartering for her time, the sound of her voice raw with experience. In a small clearing, a man with a wooden leg was dancing a jig, his body twisting and tumbling with surprising grace. He was not begging; he was performing. His laughter was a joyful sound that felt wildly out of place. He had turned his disadvantage into a spectacle, a way to survive without fighting.

I saw Manu watching it all, his eyes scanning every detail, every person. He wasn’t judging, he was observing. He had a stillness that was both a shield and a weapon, a stark contrast to my own coiled tension. I felt a fleeting sense of kinship with him. We were the same in a way: observers, analysts, our minds working to understand the grim reality of our situation.

A voice, surprisingly melodic for a place so foul, broke my focus. “You’ll learn more about this place in an hour than you will in a year of fighting. Survival is a different beast.”

An older man, with a kind face and a long gray beard, stood before us. He held a lute in one hand and a sheathed sword at his hip. There was no arrogance in him, only a quiet, weary wisdom. He called himself a bard, a storyteller. But he can't fool me. I saw a warrior, a killer. He was both, a dichotomy that intrigued me. This was a man who had seen it all. This was Orpheus.

“This barracks is your home,” he said, his voice a warm baritone, “for now. But if you want to eat, you’ll have to find a Guild. They will teach you. But for a fee, of course.”

A nervous murmur went through our group. “A fee?” one of us asked.

Orpheus sighed, a heavy sound. “Two silver a month. The price of an education, and the price of a life not wasted.” He gestured with his chin towards the bloated drunks. “They couldn’t pay. They couldn’t learn. This is all they are now. If you want to be more, you must find a way to pay.”

My mind immediately went to the coins we had. A total of four silver, given to us by Soma, to pay for our licenses. It was enough for two months. But what after that? This was why they were haggling, bartering, dancing, and selling themselves. The world was not giving out freebies. It was a trade. A currency of life and death.

Orpheus pointed to four different structures across the courtyard. “There are four kinds of guilds. For you who are skilled in combat, there are the Warriors. Knights, paladins, what have you.” He pointed to another. “For those with an affinity for magic, there are the Magic Users. Mages, clerics, spell-slingers. For the more… discrete. We have the Assassins. Thieves, hunters, rogues. And for those who prefer to craft and build, there are the Production guilds. Blacksmiths, alchemists, cooks.”

My mind immediately began to process the information. My body, my instincts—they told me to choose the Warriors Guild. I was not meant to hide or create. I was meant to fight.

I looked at my group, and to my surprise, everyone was looking at Manu. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t made a suggestion. He simply waited. He was letting us choose first. He was giving us the illusion of control, of freedom. He was a natural leader, I realized, not because he barked orders, but because he understood people. He understood that to lead, you must first give others the opportunity to lead themselves.

My mind went back to Orpheus, the master swordsman. He was a perfect fit for the Warriors Guild. He was also our only hope of survival. We had two months of tuition, and then what? It was a frightening, exhilarating gamble. Our lives were on the line. And to get started, we had to choose a school and a master to guide us. And as Manu looked at me, a silent question in his eyes, I knew my life was about to become far more complicated than I could have ever imagined.