The Sons of Gods

Sorin’s stomach tightened, feeling the weight of Zane’s doubt settling over him. He opened his mouth to respond, but Zane raised a hand to stop him.

“There’s one thing,” Zane continued, his voice quieter but sharper, “that you should know if you truly were Magnus’s disciple. One thing that will prove, without a doubt, that you knew him better than anyone else. And if you don’t know what it is, then it’s clear you’ve been lying to me.” Zane’s expression darkened, his tone menacing. “And I’ll kill you right here.”

Sorin froze, his heart pounding in his chest as Zane’s words hung in the air. But in an instant, the realization hit him. He knew exactly what Zane was referring to—the secret that would prove his bond with Magnus.

Without a word, Sorin reached for the sword lying on Zane’s desk. He grabbed it by the hilt and drew his second sword from his back, the familiar weight of the twin blades bringing him a strange sense of calm. Taking a deep breath, he stepped back from the desk and took his stance, his body lowering slightly as the twin Niuweidao swords—curved blades designed for both slashing and thrusting—came to life in his hands.

Sorin began to move.

The first stance was Storm’s Edge, the blades held low and wide, their arcs sweeping through the air in controlled, graceful strokes. Each movement was deliberate, designed to parry and deflect incoming strikes with fluidity. His footwork shifted seamlessly as he transitioned into Whirlwind Guard, his swords spinning in tight arcs as he moved like a dancer, covering all angles with precision and speed. It was a stance meant to fend off multiple attackers, its defensive nature making it nearly impossible for an enemy to break through.

From there, he shifted into The Crescent Moon, the left sword swinging high while the right remained poised for a quick thrust. It was an aggressive stance, the blades flashing in the air like silver arcs of moonlight, built for fast, relentless strikes that overwhelmed opponents before they could react. Sorin’s movements were flawless, his mind and body perfectly synchronized as he flowed through the techniques.

Finally, he moved into the finishing stance: Warbringer’s Wrath. Both swords came up in an aggressive crossguard, ready to deliver a powerful, decapitating strike. The air hummed with energy as Sorin completed the stance, his breathing steady, his mind focused. The entire display had lasted only a few moments, but it felt as though time had slowed, each stance executed with the same care and precision Magnus had drilled into him over the years.

When Sorin finished, he stood tall, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath. He looked at Zane, waiting.

For a long moment, Zane was silent. Then, slowly, a warm smile spread across his face. It was a smile filled with both pride and sadness. “Those stances…” Zane said quietly, almost to himself. “Magnus taught them to you.”

Sorin nodded, sheathing the swords, though he remained standing.

Zane’s smile widened, though his eyes glistened with emotion. “If Magnus hadn’t passed down those sword stances for the dual Niuweidao swords, then that style would have been lost. It’s a style only taught to direct descendants and disciples of the Warbringer family—something passed down for generations. But…” Zane shook his head, his gaze distant. “Magnus was the only one to master it in the past hundred years. I tried once, but with my size and bulk, I could never make it work.”

Zane let out a soft chuckle, filled with bittersweet nostalgia. “Seeing you perform it, though… it’s like seeing Magnus again.”

He leaned back in his chair, sighing heavily as the weight of it all seemed to crash down on him. “I believe you, Sorin,” Zane said, his voice quieter now. “No one Magnus took under his wing would be cruel enough to try to deceive me. If he taught you those stances, then you were his disciple.”

For a moment, Zane’s eyes dropped, and his expression softened. “Part of me half-wishes what you told me was a lie,” he admitted, his voice heavy with grief. “If it were, I could still have hope that Magnus was out there, alive. But no… I believe you.” He exhaled slowly, the sadness in his eyes deepening. “At least I have closure now. Magnus died for something greater than either of us could have ever hoped for.”

Sorin watched as Zane sat in silence for a long moment, clearly wrestling with the loss of his brother. When he finally spoke again, his voice was firm, but there was a hint of something warmer beneath it. “Magnus was family. And now that I know the truth, I swear this to you, Sorin—I will train you. I will pick up the burden that my brother left behind.”

Zane stood, his expression darkening with resolve. “And one day…” His voice became venomous, filled with a raw, simmering hatred. “I will hunt down and kill that son of a bitch, Lief Stoneheart, for what he did to my brother.”

Sorin nodded, his own anger toward Lief burning just beneath the surface. But for now, he felt a small measure of relief. He had found an ally in Zane Warbringer—someone who not only believed him but would help him carry out his revenge on Lief Stoneheart and more importantly revive Magnus.

Sorin hesitated, feeling the weight of what he was about to tell Zane. "There’s something else," he began carefully. "On my way to Cestead, I traveled to the Fen of the Necromancer."

Zane's eyes widened with shock, and he interrupted immediately. "The Fen of the Necromancer? That's madness, boy. No one goes in there and escapes. It’s impossible—no one survives Wuthum’s grasp."

Sorin was planning to give voice to everything he had experienced in the Fen of the Necromancer, but as his mind drifted to the countless hours spent tied down to a stone slab with no escape he decided against it. He shivered involuntarily and decided not to relive those memories as much as possible.

Sorin continued. “I made it inside… and I was captured. Wuthum—he’s everything the stories say he is, but there's more. While I was there, I used one of my abilities… one that evolved and halted a curse that’s been on Wuthum for hundreds of years. The curse had driven him mad, but when I was able to give him clarity, he let me go.”

Zane’s shock was palpable, but he stayed silent, his intense gaze focused on Sorin.

“During those days of sanity, Wuthum made me a promise. He said he could place Magnus’s soul into an undead body—one that could still cultivate spirit, remember everything, and be… essentially, Magnus. But Wuthum’s curse is ancient, inflicted by a follower of Beacon hundreds of years ago. To make Magnus whole again, Wuthum needs help to break it. He asked me to recruit someone—a powerful follower of Mortis, strong enough to undo the curse on a High Archon Necromancer.”

Zane stood frozen in place, disbelief clear on his face. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply staring at Sorin as if trying to process the impossible. Then, all at once, the disbelief gave way to something else. His eyes brightened with hope, something Sorin hadn’t expected to see in the hardened warrior.

“You’re saying…” Zane whispered, his voice rough, “that Magnus… he could come back? My brother—alive again?”

Sorin nodded, but before he could say anything more, Zane let out a booming laugh of pure joy, a sound that echoed through the room. Without warning, Zane strode forward and wrapped Sorin in a massive bear hug, lifting him clear off the ground. Sorin gasped, ribs threatening to crack under Zane’s powerful embrace, but the genuine excitement pouring from Zane was impossible to ignore.

“I’ll move heaven and earth if that’s what Wuthum wants!” Zane roared, still gripping Sorin. "Magnus—alive again!" He set Sorin down, finally releasing him, though his eyes were still shining with disbelief and joy.

For a moment, Zane stood there, breathing heavily as he regained his composure. Then, as if catching himself showing too much emotion, he straightened, his face once again that of a serious warrior. “It will be done,” he declared firmly, as though the matter was already settled.

Zane let out a long breath, the weight of everything finally starting to sink in. “These are… quite the revelations you’ve brought me, Sorin. Any one of these events would be enough to leave me reeling, but you’ve hit me with them all at once.” He shook his head in disbelief, running a hand through his dark hair. “Two Demigods, one of the Light Pantheon and one of the Dark, roaming the world? War is coming, no doubt about it. And not just a skirmish—something big. It was inevitable, but this? This guarantees it.”

He walked over to the window, staring out at the training grounds below, where warriors were still sparring and training, blissfully unaware of the larger forces moving around them. “The fact that you survived all this… the Fen, Lief Stoneheart, and now you’re standing here, speaking to me…” Zane paused, a smile creeping across his face. “It means this war is going to be something massive. The Light and Dark Pantheons will clash, and the world won’t be the same afterward. The Gods and Goddess of the Dark Pantheon have decreed it through your survival.”

Zane turned back to Sorin, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. “And I’m eager for it to start. I’ve been waiting for something like this—a battle worth fighting, a cause worth bleeding for. When it begins, I plan to be in the thick of it.”

He crossed the room again and stood directly in front of Sorin, his face serious now. “But first, we need to make sure you’re ready. If you’re going to be a key player in this war, if you’re going to lead the Dark Pantheon to victory, you need to be strong enough to back it up. I’ll train you—personally in addition to the academy. We’ll turn you into a powerhouse that the whole Dark Pantheon can rally behind.”

Sorin felt the intensity of Zane’s words, the gravity of what lay ahead settling on him like a cloak. He had come to Cestead to train, to find strength, but now it was clear his journey was more important than ever. He wasn’t just training for himself anymore—he was preparing for a war that would shake the very foundations of the world.

Zane placed a hand on Sorin’s shoulder, his grip firm but not as crushing as before. “We’ll bring Magnus back, and together, we’ll make sure this war is ours to win. But first, we need to find someone who can help Wuthum—and we need to start making you strong enough to carry the burden Magnus left behind.”

Sorin nodded, the enormity of what Zane was offering settling deep within him. The war would come, and when it did, he would need to be ready. Ready to lead, ready to fight… and ready to stand against his brother. However, with Zane and Wuthum helping him, it did not seem such a daunting task anymore.

Zane suddenly bellowed, his voice booming through the room, “Johanna! Get back in here!”

Johanna hadn’t gone far, as Sorin had expected, and after a brief pause, a knock came at the door. A moment later, Johanna re-entered, her sharp gaze quickly scanning the room for any signs of trouble. As she stepped inside, Vestian, who had been waiting patiently in the hallway, darted in through the open door. The small, vibrant familiar flapped its wings and landed gracefully on Sorin’s shoulder, perching there with an air of ownership.

Zane blinked, momentarily surprised by the sight of the creature. "A familiar?" he said with mild surprise. "Rare to see one, but a pleasant surprise nonetheless."

Sorin smiled, reaching up to gently stroke Vestian’s smooth scales. "Wuthum gave me the familiar egg as a parting gift," he explained, causing Vestian to squawk contentedly.

Johanna's eyes narrowed in confusion at the mention of Wuthum, her brows knitting together. "Wuthum?" she repeated slowly, her voice carrying a mix of recognition and skepticism. "You can't mean… the necromancer from the fen to the northwest?"

Sorin didn’t respond immediately, but Zane waved off Johanna’s concern before she could press further. "We'll get to that later," Zane said dismissively, his mind already moving ahead. "Johanna, listen carefully. Sorin here is to be my direct disciple from now on."

Johanna’s mouth fell slightly open, her surprise clear. "Your direct disciple, sir?" she repeated, the incredulity in her voice unmistakable.

"Yes," Zane replied firmly. "Set him up with a course list that focuses on combat and tactics. Make sure he has a daily free period for personal training with me." His tone was absolute, leaving no room for negotiation. "He’ll need a dorm room, access to funds, and whatever else he needs. If he asks for it, you get it for him, no questions asked."

Johanna blinked, trying to process the sudden, dramatic shift in tone and priority. "Sir, I—" she began, but Zane swiftly cut her off with a raised hand.

"No arguments, Johanna," Zane snapped, though his voice wasn’t unkind. "After you’ve taken care of Sorin’s arrangements, set up a meeting for me with the highest official in the Temple of Mortis you can find. We need someone powerful and specialized in curses."

Johanna's face twisted with confusion, but she remained silent, her eyes flicking back and forth between Zane and Sorin, trying to make sense of the puzzle pieces she was being given. Before she could gather her thoughts enough to voice any more questions, Zane abruptly stood, his imposing form towering over both Sorin and Johanna.

“And now,” Zane declared, his voice booming with authority, “I’m going to pay the City Overlord a visit. The other academies have been infringing on Warbringer territory, and I intend to stop it immediately. If they want conflict, they'll have it.”

Without another word, Zane stormed out of the office, the door slamming behind him as his heavy footfalls echoed down the corridor. His sudden departure left the room in stunned silence, and Johanna stared at the door, her face a mix of bewilderment and disbelief.

She turned to Sorin, her confusion palpable as she struggled to regain her composure. “I… suppose we should get you set up, then,” she said, her voice slightly strained but professional. Her eyes lingered on Vestian for a moment before she shook her head and muttered under her breath, “This day keeps getting stranger.”

Sorin nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. He had expected his arrival at Warbringer Academy to be difficult, but things had taken a far more interesting turn than he had anticipated. And now, he had Zane’s full support—and the prospect of uncovering a way to bring Magnus back.

“I am Johanna Fenton by the way. I am Zane’s secretary,” Johanna introduced herself.

“Sorin, a pleasure to meet you Miss Fenton,” Sorin responded.

“Mrs. Fenton if you will. My husband teaches at the academy,” Johanna corrected.

“Of course, Mrs. Fenton. My apologies,” Sorin apologized politely. He wanted to leave a good impression on Johanna if she was working so closely with Zane.

“Thank you Sorin, now let us get this handled,” Johanna stated.

As Johanna led him from the office, Sorin glanced back at the door where Zane had disappeared. Johanna led Sorin through the academy halls until they arrived at her office, a small, simplistic space with clean, sharp lines and an air of efficiency. The walls were mostly bare, save for a few shelves lined with neatly organized scrolls and books. A sturdy wooden desk sat near the back of the room, flanked by two comfortable chairs. Despite the minimal decor, a few plants—potted vines with pale, glowing leaves that reacted to movement—crawled across the window ledge, their faint luminescence adding a touch of life to the otherwise utilitarian room.

The moment they entered, Vestian’s sharp eyes caught sight of the plants. With a gleeful squawk, he launched himself from Sorin’s shoulder and flitted over to one of the vines, landing delicately on the pot. Without hesitation, the familiar began to nibble on the glowing leaves, seemingly delighted by the taste.

“Vestian, no!” Sorin called, but his voice held a touch of amusement. Johanna, however, was less amused.

"Stop that!" Johanna said sharply, waving her hands at Vestian in an attempt to shoo him away from the plants. Vestian looked at her, head cocked to the side, entirely unimpressed by her efforts. After a few moments of half-hearted attempts, Johanna let out an exasperated sigh, crossing her arms in defeat. "Fine. Just… don’t destroy them, all right?"

Vestian chirped happily and resumed munching on the leaves.

Johanna shook her head, clearly annoyed but trying to maintain her composure. "Let’s get down to business," she said, gesturing for Sorin to sit down at the desk. She handed him a parchment with a long list of courses available at the academy, mostly focused on combat, tactics, and strategy.

“Zane mentioned focusing your training on combat and tactics, so these are your options,” Johanna explained, pointing to various sections of the parchment. "You'll need to pick six classes to fill your schedule. These will be your core focus while you train with Zane during your free period."

Sorin scanned the list, mentally weighing each option. After a few minutes of thought, he circled six that caught his attention:

Advanced Swordsmanship – A course dedicated to mastering various sword techniques, including two-weapon fighting.

Combat Tactics and Strategy – A class focused on battlefield strategies, formations, and how to lead troops in combat.

Close-Quarters Combat – Emphasizing hand-to-hand combat and fighting in tight spaces, blending martial techniques with physical conditioning.

Battlefield Awareness – A course designed to train students in reacting to threats, tracking enemy movements, and understanding terrain advantages.

World Lore and History – Understanding and learning the secrets of the world in order to be better equipped in facing the unexpected and unknown.

War Magic Basics – A class that provided foundational knowledge in basic war magic, blending your spellcraft with physical combat techniques.

“These will do,” Sorin said, handing the parchment back to Johanna.

She nodded, approving the choices as she scribbled the selections onto her own scroll. "All right," she said, "your tutor period with Zane will be every afternoon for two hours, after your scheduled classes. We’ll stagger your combat courses throughout the morning, with a break for midday meal before your private training with Zane."

Johanna slid another parchment across the desk, detailing his schedule. Sorin took it and scanned the breakdown.

"Here," Johanna continued, reaching into her desk drawer and pulling out a small leather bag. She handed it to Sorin. "This is your living stipend, at least until Zane and I can figure out an appropriate amount for your longer-term needs. It should cover food, supplies, and anything else you’ll need. Everything you should need will be in the surrounding district. I strongly advise shopping in only this district or the city district. Visiting other academy districts leads to unnecessary conflict."

Sorin took the bag, feeling the weight of the coins inside. Without much thought, he slipped the bag into his storage ring, causing it to vanish instantly. Johanna’s eyes widened in shock, her mouth opening slightly as she stared at his hand.

"Did you just… store that in a storage ring?" she asked, her voice laced with disbelief. "How on earth does someone of your level have access to something like that?"

Sorin glanced at the ring, remembering how Wuthum had given it to him as a parting gift. "It was a gift," he replied simply while realizing that showing off the ring may have been a mistake. It would be better to keep it under wraps from now on if it was enough to shock someone at Johanna’s position and Rank. Sorin did not know her exact Rank, but he could tell it was well above the Disciple Rank.

Johanna blinked, still processing the idea. After a moment, she shook her head, visibly deciding not to pursue the matter further. "Well," she muttered, "I’m not going to ask. Not my business."

She stood up, clearly eager to move on from her moment of shock. "Come on, I’ll walk you to the dorms."

They left her office, Vestian flew back to Sorin’s shoulder, still contentedly munching on some of the strange plant’s leaves. The trio made their way toward the dormitories. The series of buildings were large and imposing, built from dark stone that blended seamlessly with the academy's rugged, fortress-like aesthetic. The outside was lined with tall, narrow windows, each adorned with iron bars that gave the dorm a sense of security more akin to a military barracks than student housing. Ivy clung to parts of the stone walls, softening the structure’s otherwise harsh lines, and a wide set of stone steps led up to each entrance.

“This is where you’ll stay,” Johanna said as they reached one of the buildings. “You’ll have your own room, but the common areas are shared with other students. You’ll also have access to the academy’s facilities at any time.”

Sorin nodded, taking in the sight of his new home. The dorm was just as formidable as the rest of Warbringer Academy, but it felt right. This was where he would grow, where he would become stronger—and where he would prepare for the war that was surely coming. Vestian chirped contentedly, thoroughly ruining the series train of thought that Sorin was engaging in. Sorin turned to look at the bird with a raised eyebrow. Vestian let out a strange noise resembling a belch. Sorin slowly turned his head forward, his eyes looking toward the sky in exasperation while refusing to acknowledge the familiar’s antics.

As Sorin and Johanna stepped inside the dormitory, he immediately noticed its simplicity and practicality. The interior had a no-nonsense, robust design, clearly built for function over comfort. The living rooms, study areas, and bedrooms were all neatly organized, forming a straightforward, grid-like layout. The walls were bare stone, the floors reinforced wood, and there were no decorations or frivolous details—just sturdy furniture and efficient use of space.

“This is the Acolyte male dorm,” Johanna introduced, her tone professional but detached. As they walked down the halls, Sorin couldn’t help but notice the odd atmosphere inside the dormitory. In nearly every hallway or around every corner, groups of young men were brawling—fists flying, bodies slamming into walls, grunts and shouts echoing through the building. It was chaotic, but oddly, it seemed entirely normal to the residents.

Sorin raised an eyebrow, glancing at Johanna in confusion. "Why is everyone fighting?"

She shrugged nonchalantly, not even sparing a glance at the scuffles. “It’s part of the culture here at the academy. The boys like to fight for dominance and prove themselves to one another. The staff encourages it,” she added, as if this was the most ordinary thing in the world. "It toughens them up, makes them stronger. Thankfully, the female dorm is far more civilized and doesn’t engage in such barbarity."

Sorin glanced around as they passed another group grappling in the middle of the hall, their faces bloody but filled with a kind of fierce determination. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, but it seemed ingrained in the academy’s way of life. Sorin shrugged, maybe the situation would grow on him once he knocked a few skulls together.

Eventually, they reached the end of the hallway, and Johanna stopped in front of a sturdy wooden door. She pulled a key from her belt and a package of papers and handed them to Sorin. “The key is for your room and the pamphlet is basic information about the school,” she said, her voice taking on a more formal tone. “Remember, your first class is tomorrow morning. Meals are offered at the mess hall during designated times in the pamphlet—don’t miss them. Everything is contained in the pamphlet so make sure if you read it. If you can’t read it like some of the students here!”

Johanna raised her voice, shouting about some of the students' inability to read for all to hear. There was a sudden silence through the dorms as all fighting ceased after the shout. A moment of silence was followed by a chorus of “Sorry Miss Fenton!” coming from the entire dorm.

“It's Mrs. Fenton!” Johanna shouted, clearly irritated.

“Yes, Mrs. Fenton!” The calls were replied. The sounds of fighting then resumed.

“Knuckleheads all of them,” Johanna groaned while pinching the bridge to her nose. She then continued at a normal speaking volume. “If you can’t read then just ask a faculty member or one of the students.”

Sorin nodded while trying not to laugh. “I can read. Thank you for escorting me here.”

Johanna gave him a curt nod as he grabbed the key and the pamphlet. She turned to leave, her footsteps echoing through the hallway as she departed. Sorin watched her go for a moment, then turned back to the door and unlocked it, stepping inside his new room.

The dorm room was military in style—stark, clean, and practical. The walls were plain stone, much like the rest of the dormitory, with no adornments or decorations. A narrow bed with a simple straw mattress sat against one wall, its sheets and blanket folded neatly at the foot. There was a small wooden desk next to the bed, with a single chair and a stack of blank parchment waiting on its surface. A closet stood in the corner for storing clothes and gear, and there was a small trunk at the foot of the bed for personal belongings.

The room had one small window, letting in just enough light to keep the room from feeling too gloomy. It looked out over the courtyard, where Sorin could see more students sparring and practicing their combat skills.

The simplicity of the room didn’t bother Sorin. In fact, he found it comforting. It reminded him of the years spent training with Magnus, where they lived in a small simple wooden house. This was the kind of space where he could focus, where he could grow stronger.

Vestian flitted around the room, surveying the space before settling on the bedpost, his curious eyes scanning the room.

Sorin dropped his belongings beside the bed, letting out a slow breath. This was it—the beginning of his journey here at Warbringer Academy. He had a lot to prove, not just to Zane, but to himself.

After taking one more look around the room, he sat down on the bed, the weight of everything that had happened settling over him. Tomorrow, his training would begin, and with it, the next steps toward becoming a warrior worthy of the Warbringer name. This thought was immediately derailed by a commotion in the hallway.

Sorin heard a frantic, high-pitched voice shouting, “Back, beast! Back! Stay away!” followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy footfalls and a deep, guttural roar that shook the walls of the dormitory. Without hesitation, he jumped to his feet, rushed to the door, and flung it open, stepping into the hallway just as a thin, wiry boy came running toward him.

The boy was a wiry figure, his dark hair falling just over his eyes, which darted around nervously. His appearance was unremarkable, making him the type who could easily be overlooked in a crowd. His white skin had a healthy color, but it wasn’t pale—more like someone who spent just enough time outdoors. He wore the Warbringer Acolyte uniform, a practical outfit of dark leather reinforced with the Warbringer crest atop the shoulders. The jacket he wore was studded with silver buttons and the tunic beneath was a deep crimson.

Without a word, the boy dashed toward Sorin and, to Sorin’s surprise, cowered behind him. “Save me, oh valiant warrior!” the boy cried dramatically, peeking out from behind Sorin’s back with wide, terrified eyes.

Before Sorin could even process what was happening, a massive figure came barreling down the hallway toward them. The sound of the man’s heavy footfalls echoed through the dormitory like thunder. He was built like a fortress—muscular and tall, his body towering over everyone else in the hall. His dark brown skin gleamed under the flickering hallway lights, and his broad shoulders strained against the fabric of the Acolyte uniform, which looked comically too small for his massive frame. His short, buzz-cut brown hair gave him a brutish appearance, and his eyes burned with frustration as he spotted the wiry boy hiding behind Sorin.

“I will not be tricked by such a puny man with no muscles, who runs away!” the giant brute bellowed, his words slurred slightly as though his thoughts weren’t fully catching up with his mouth. The man's tone, as much as his appearance, revealed his nature—an unintelligent brute, more inclined to solve problems with his fists than his brain.

The massive man stopped in front of Sorin, towering over both him and the boy hiding behind him. “Fight me, Jackson Hughes!” he demanded, glaring down at the thin boy.

The wiry boy—Jackson Hughes—peered around Sorin’s shoulder with a faint smile. “No thank you, Torrid,” Jackson said, his tone light but with a nervous edge. “Bruises aren’t on the menu for dinner. Can’t we all just get along? Just because this is a war academy doesn’t mean we have to fight.”

The brute—Torrid, as Jackson had called him—snarled, clearly growing more frustrated. His massive fists clenched at his sides as he took a threatening step forward. “I have to fight everyone in this dorm!” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “I gotta prove myself, and you—you little worm—tricked me! You ran away!”

Jackson grinned nervously from behind Sorin, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I surrender, Torrid. You win. There, see? You beat me!”

Torrid’s expression darkened as Jackson’s attempt at diplomacy only seemed to enrage him further. “That don’t count! Surrendering’s not a fight! I must prove myself with a real fight!” Torrid bellowed, his fists shaking in frustration.

Sorin, still standing between them, raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Hold on. Let’s talk this through,” Sorin said evenly, trying to defuse the situation. “If Jackson doesn’t want to fight, he doesn’t have to. Why force it?”

Torrid glared down at Sorin, his face twisting in confusion and anger. “He tricked me! He ran away, and I’ll fight him no matter what! Even if I gotta go through you!”

Without warning, Torrid raised his massive fist, pulling it back to strike Sorin. His eyes gleamed with the simple-minded determination of a brute who had decided violence was the only answer.

Just as Torrid was about to unleash his massive fist toward Sorin, there was a sharp cry of anger, resembling that of a furious bird. Vestian shot out from Sorin’s room like a bolt of energy, his tiny form bristling with indignation. He began to scratch at Torrid's head, wings flapping wildly as he circled the brute, pecking and clawing with surprising ferocity.

Torrid let out a cry of terror, stumbling backward as he swung his arms wildly in a desperate attempt to defend himself. “Bad chicken bird!” Torrid yelled, covering his head with his massive arms and hunching over, clearly overwhelmed by Vestian’s relentless assault.

Vestian, seemingly infuriated by being called a "chicken bird," redoubled his efforts, swooping and diving at Torrid with renewed vigor. Though the small familiar wasn’t actually doing any real damage, the flurry of wings and claws was enough to keep Torrid off balance.

Sorin tried several times to call Vestian back. “Vestian! Stop! Come back here!” he shouted, but the familiar was too caught up in his attack, squawking loudly in what sounded like a battle cry. It wasn’t until Sorin’s third or fourth attempt that Vestian finally obeyed, flying back to perch on Sorin’s shoulder, looking incredibly proud of himself for taking down such a large foe. His yellow cat-like eyes gleamed with smug satisfaction.

Jackson, who had been cowering behind Sorin, was now cheering wildly, as if watching a gladiator match unfold. "Go, Vestian! Get him!" he shouted, laughing gleefully. At the same time, two other boys emerged from their rooms, both of them grinning as they watched the spectacle. Their laughter echoed through the hall, filling the already chaotic scene.

Torrid, still hunched over, rose slowly, glaring at Sorin and Vestian, his massive chest heaving with anger. His face was flushed, and his muscles tensed as he prepared to leap forward, clearly ready for a fight. Just as he took a step toward them, Vestian let out another sharp squawk, causing Torrid to freeze, his bravado quickly crumbling.

"Vestian, cut it out," Sorin said firmly, giving his familiar a sideways look. He stepped forward and extended his hand to Torrid. “I’m Sorin,” he said, offering a calm smile. “Sorry about Vestian. He doesn’t take kindly to being called a chicken.”

Vestian squawked indignantly from Sorin’s shoulder, clearly irritated by the entire exchange.

Torrid, still glaring at Vestian, seemed to regain some of his composure. He glanced at Sorin’s outstretched hand before reluctantly shaking it, his massive palm enveloping Sorin’s. “Torrid,” he grunted in return, his voice still filled with frustration. He turned his gaze toward Jackson, who was now peeking out from behind Sorin. “Jackson, you’ll fight me one day,” Torrid declared, pointing a thick finger at him before turning and stomping off down the hallway.

Jackson waited until Torrid was out of earshot, then threw his hands in the air and let out a celebratory cheer. “Vestian, you’re my hero!” he cried, rushing forward and grabbing the familiar from Sorin’s shoulder. Jackson spun Vestian around in his arms, planting an enthusiastic kiss on his beak. "You're the best scaled chicken I know!" he added gleefully.

Vestian’s eyes narrowed in irritation at being called a "chicken" again, and with a quick peck, he nipped Jackson’s hand. “Ow!” Jackson yelped, dropping Vestian, who fluttered back to Sorin’s shoulder, looking rather pleased with himself.

The two boys who had been laughing in the hallway approached, still grinning from ear to ear. The first was middle in height, with fiery red hair and a bulky build, despite his relatively short stature. His muscles were pronounced, and his wide frame suggested he spent more time training than studying. He had a pair of sharp green eyes that gleamed with mischief.

The second boy was tall and lanky, but there was obvious muscle beneath his wiry frame. His long, flowing black hair reached down to his mid-back, and his black eyes seemed almost unnaturally dark. His pasty white skin stood in stark contrast to the rest of his features, giving him an eerie, almost ghostly appearance.

The red-haired boy stepped forward first, his grin wide. “That was the most hilarious thing I’ve seen happen in this dorm in months!” he said, extending his hand toward Sorin. “Name’s Tytus Guvester.”

The tall, dark-haired boy followed suit, offering a nod. “I’m Diego Fenton,” he said in a lower, more reserved tone.

Tytus laughed again, glancing down the hallway where Torrid had disappeared. “Torrid’s a bit of a legend around here. He’s insanely strong—physically and with the powers bestowed on him by his God. For him to get bested by a tiny familiar…” He chuckled. “That’s going to be talked about for weeks.”

Sorin smiled and extended his hand. “I’m Sorin,” he said, shaking Tytus and Diego’s hands in turn. “And this,” he added, motioning to his shoulder, “is Vestian.”

Vestian puffed up proudly, letting out another squawk that echoed down the hall.

Diego glanced at Sorin thoughtfully. "Fenton, huh?" Sorin mused aloud, remembering his earlier encounter. "I met a Mrs. Fenton earlier today—are you related?"

Diego rolled his eyes, clearly used to the question. "Yeah, that’s my mom," he replied with a sigh. "She handles a lot of the academy’s administration. I guess you’re new if you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting her."

Sorin nodded. “Yeah, just got here. Haven’t even had time to get into uniform yet.”

Diego nodded in understanding. “Figured as much. Well, good luck. You’re going to need it around here, especially since you made an enemy of Torrid on your first day.”

“It has truly been a long day. It's been lovely meeting you three and our resident barbarian, but I must get some sleep before classes tomorrow. I hope you understand,” Sorin replied. He could feel his exhaustion from the day creeping over him.

“Of course we understand. I was planning on turning in myself until I heard the commotion,” Tytus said.

“Of course, I am tired after running from Torrid for so long. I thought I was a goner for sure. Thanks again Sorin, and you too Vestian,” Jackson said with a smile towards the familiar.

Jackson turned and left, trodding down the hallway, jumping at every little bump and crash from the rough housing that was happening elsewhere within the dorms. The other boys returned to their rooms as well. Sorin and Vestian were left alone to return to their room where they locked the door behind themselves. Sorin then stripped off his clothes till he was nude and climbed into the bed, not bothering to wash off the sweat from the day’s travel. He would do that in the morning.