The Sons of Gods

Sorin woke up in his dorm room, greeted immediately by a familiar squawk from Vestian, who was perched on the bedpost, his yellow eyes gleaming with energy. Stretching out the stiffness from his muscles, Sorin rubbed his eyes and sat up. The events of the previous day flooded his mind, but he pushed them aside, focusing on getting ready for his first full day at Warbringer Academy.

After a quick search of the dorm halls, Sorin found a shared bathroom and shower area. The design was simple but functional—stone floors with drains, individual stalls, and a row of sinks with mirrors. He quickly showered, letting the warm water wash away the grime of travel and the dorm's gritty atmosphere. Vestian, apparently not one to be left out, hopped down into the bottom of the stall and used the runoff as a bird bath, happily splashing around in the water. Sorin couldn’t help but smile at his familiar’s antics.

Once cleaned up, Sorin grabbed one of the towels provided, wrapped it around his waist, and made his way back to his room, Vestian flying ahead, still dripping wet from his impromptu bath. Apparently the familiar could fly despite it having wet feathers.

Back in his room, Sorin opened the closet and found several Warbringer Academy uniforms— sets of dark leather and cloth, reinforced with metal plates on the shoulders and forearms. The crimson and silver-gray colors matched those he had seen on the other students, with the emblem of the academy embroidered on the chest. The uniforms were designed to be adjustable, and Sorin spent a few minutes tweaking the fit, making sure it was snug but flexible enough to allow free movement in combat. Satisfied, he looked at himself in the small mirror by the door, feeling more like an official part of the academy now.

On the desk, he spotted the pamphlet Johanna had provided him. He gave it a quick read, making sure he was up to speed on the schedule and layout of the academy. His first stop of the day would be breakfast in the mess hall, which, luckily, he had passed on his way to Zane Warbringer’s office the previous day.

Sorin made his way to the mess hall, Vestian perched once again on his shoulder. The dining hall was a large, chaotic space, filled with the raucous energy of students. The tables were long, lined up in neat rows, each surrounded by students who were talking loudly, jostling for seats, and swapping stories about training and combat. The room was lit by large iron chandeliers that hung from the high ceiling, their flickering candlelight casting a warm but uneven glow over the bustling space.

At one end of the room, there was a buffet-style serving line, where students grabbed their food from large metal trays set atop hot coals. The food was basic—nothing fancy. Army rations, Sorin thought as he moved through the line, grabbing a tray. The selection consisted of thick slices of bread, a chunk of roasted meat (he wasn’t sure what kind of meat it was, but it looked tough), some boiled potatoes, and a grayish porridge that looked less than appetizing. There were pitchers of water and weak ale at the end of the line for drinks.

Tray in hand, Sorin scanned the room and spotted Diego and Tytus sitting together at a table near the middle of the hall. They seemed engaged in conversation, laughing about something, so Sorin made his way over and sat down across from them.

"Morning," Sorin greeted, setting his tray down.

Diego and Tytus looked up, grinning. "Well, look who found his way to breakfast," Tytus said with a smirk. "Must be able to read, eh?"

Sorin chuckled, thinking it was a joke. "Yeah, I guess so."

But Diego shook his head, still smiling. "Nah, seriously. Most new recruits don’t bother reading the pamphlet and end up missing breakfast their first day. Either that or they don’t know how to read at all."

Sorin’s smile faltered, surprised. "Wait, how could they not know how to read?"

Diego shrugged casually, taking a bite of his bread. “A lot of the people who come here for the scholarship program are just warriors—people who’ve been fighting their whole lives. They come from tough places, usually from poor, mortal families. Reading isn’t exactly a priority when you’ve spent your life tilling fields or fending off beasts.”

Tytus nodded in agreement. "Yeah, their parents were probably farmers or something like that. They didn’t grow up with access to teachers or tutors. They’re good with a sword, but when it comes to books…" He trailed off, shrugging.

Sorin mulled this over as he poked at the porridge with his spoon. "I hadn’t really thought about that," he admitted.

Diego leaned forward, smirking. "You’ll see soon enough. Not everyone here is cut from the same cloth. Some are here because they want to be the best warriors, and others are here because it’s their only chance to escape a rough life."

Sorin nodded, understanding a bit more about the diverse backgrounds of the academy's students. "That makes sense," he said thoughtfully, then took a bite of the bread—it was just as tough and tasteless as he had expected.

Vestian, perched on the back of the bench, squawked indignantly, clearly hungry and staring at Sorin’s dull breakfast.

As Sorin finished his meal with Diego and Tytus, he casually remarked, “It’s impressive how the Warbringer Academy has earned its reputation for being one of the more accepting academies, thanks to the scholarship programs. Not many places would offer such opportunities to people from rough backgrounds.”

Diego and Tytus both nodded in agreement, their expressions showing they appreciated the academy’s inclusiveness, even if its methods were tough.

At that moment, Jackson joined the table, his wiry frame and wide grin preceding him. “I just had to sit with my savior,” Jackson said dramatically, plopping down next to Sorin.

Sorin raised an eyebrow, not entirely comfortable with the title. “Please don’t call me that.”

Jackson scoffed, waving a hand. “I wasn’t talking about you.” He leaned across the table and turned his attention to Vestian, who was perched on Sorin’s shoulder, squawking indignantly. “I was talking about this magnificent little creature.” He pulled a chunk of his bread apart and offered it to Vestian, who, without hesitation, abandoned Sorin and fluttered over to Jackson’s shoulder, pecking at the food eagerly.

“Traitor,” Sorin muttered with mock disappointment. “Ungrateful traitor.”

Vestian squawked at him as if to say he didn’t care, and everyone at the table broke into laughter. Jackson scratched Vestian under the chin, earning more squawks of contentment.

After a while, the group finished their meals, the conversation light and filled with laughter. Soon, it was time to head to class. Sorin made his way through the academy, experiencing his first full day of courses.

Sorin’s first class of the day was Advanced Swordsmanship, held in a spacious, open-air training arena. The sound of clashing blades filled the air as students paired off, sparring with a variety of weapons. The instructor, a seasoned warrior with graying hair and sharp eyes, was known simply as Instructor Belaric. He was a no-nonsense man who drilled students relentlessly, focusing on precision and technique.

The day’s lesson focused on two-weapon fighting, a skill that required balance, timing, and mastery of footwork. Sorin was paired with another student, and together they practiced fluid movements, Sorin using his twin swords while his opponent used a shortsword. Belaric emphasized the importance to Sorin of keeping both blades moving in sync, ensuring that neither sword was idle during an attack or defense.

Sorin found the lesson both exhilarating and familiar. The techniques felt natural in his hands, honed from his training with Magnus. He glided through the movements, adjusting his stance and refining his attacks under Belaric’s critical eye. The other students were quick to notice Sorin’s skill, and while no one said anything, there was a quiet respect in the way they watched him.

Next, Sorin made his way to the Combat Tactics and Strategy class, a large, lecture-style room filled with maps, miniature armies, and chalkboards covered in notes. The instructor, Master Arvok, was a former general with a reputation for brilliant battlefield maneuvers. He had a gruff exterior but was known for his sharp mind.

The lesson revolved around formations and flanking maneuvers. Arvok led the class through several historical battles, explaining how proper formation and timing could make or break an army. He highlighted the importance of reading an opponent's strategy and reacting quickly to changes on the battlefield.

Sorin found the class fascinating. They were given a hypothetical scenario, and students had to devise plans to lead troops through difficult terrain while being flanked by an enemy force. Sorin’s strategy was straightforward—leveraging terrain to channel the enemy into a chokepoint—but Master Arvok added layers of complexity, teaching him that battlefield adaptability was key to victory.

In the Close-Quarters Combat class, the intensity ramped up. Held in a smaller, enclosed training room, this course focused on hand-to-hand combat and fighting in tight spaces. The instructor, Sergeant Hale, was a compact, muscular woman who demanded nothing less than perfection from her students.

She taught all about breaking holds and grappling in confined spaces. The training was physical, with students paired off in a series of drills designed to test their reaction speed and physical conditioning. Sorin spent the entire class sweating as he and his sparring partner traded blows and practiced close-quarters techniques designed to disable or incapacitate an opponent quickly.

Sergeant Hale circled the students like a predator, offering gruff corrections or encouragement when needed. Sorin’s agility helped him move fluidly, and by the end of the session, he was bruised but felt sharper, faster. Hale nodded approvingly at his progress.

The Battlefield Awareness class was more cerebral but just as demanding. Held outdoors near a training field, the instructor, Captain Garet, a former scout with a sharp eye for detail, led students through exercises designed to enhance their ability to perceive threats, track movements, and understand the advantages of terrain.

They were taken through an exercise where they had to navigate a mock battlefield, avoiding “enemy” forces while identifying advantageous terrain. Sorin had to react quickly, moving from cover to cover, assessing where enemies might attack from, and learning to spot ambushes before they could happen.

Captain Garet stressed the importance of situational awareness, showing the class how a single lapse in focus could turn the tide of a battle. Sorin’s training in the wild helped him pick up on the lessons quickly, and by the end of the exercise, he had successfully navigated the terrain without getting “caught” in any of the ambushes.

Sorin’s afternoon took a more intellectual turn in World Lore and History. This class was held in a quieter part of the academy, in a room lined with books and scrolls. The instructor, Scholar Ferus, was an older man with a deep love for the history of the world’s many conflicts and the mystical forces that shaped it.

The class dove into the ancient wars between the Light and Dark Pantheons, delving into how the Gods influenced the mortal realm through their followers. Ferus explained that understanding history was crucial for any warrior, as it helped them face the unexpected and unknown. Sorin listened intently, realizing that this knowledge might help him one day face the inevitable conflict between him and his brother.

They also learned about magical creatures, lost civilizations, and forgotten wars—things that could reappear and influence the future. Sorin soaked in the information, understanding that these secrets could be the key to surviving the world’s most dangerous challenges.

Sorin’s class list concluded with War Magic Basics, a class that introduced students to blending magic with physical combat. The instructor, Mage Beldric, was a tall, severe man with deep-set eyes who demonstrated how certain spells could enhance a warrior’s strength, speed, or defenses in battle.

Mage Beldric taught everyone to utilize the spells that were bestowed upon them by their Gods or Goddesses while in combat, ensuring that students could cast them while maintaining their offensive movements. Sorin and the other students practiced casting spells while swinging swords or dodging attacks. The goal was to make magic an extension of their combat style rather than a separate action.

Sorin found this class particularly challenging. His natural affinity for physical combat didn’t extend as easily to spellcasting as he thought it would, but he was determined to master it. Sorin assumed that he had been excelling in using his spells like Shadow Control while in combat. He had fought his way out of the Forest of Thieves after all, but he apparently had been lacking. Beldric had shown him plenty of places he could improve from casting speed to working in tandem with his swords to creativity of using Shadow Control. Sorin had a long way to go, but was pleased with the progress he made that day in this class and the others.

It was time for Sorin’s tutoring under Zane. Sorin made his way to Zane Warbringer’s office after his long day of classes, unsure of whether Zane would be there or elsewhere, but trusting in what Zane had said about their afternoon training sessions. As he approached the door, he knocked firmly.

"Enter," came Zane’s deep voice from within.

Sorin stepped inside, finding Zane rising from behind his desk to greet him. The office was just as imposing as before, lined with weapons, maps, and battle relics. Zane gestured for him to take a seat, his expression serious but welcoming.

Once Sorin sat, Zane got straight to business. “I’ve been making strides based on the information you provided me,” he began, folding his arms across his chest. “First and foremost, I’ve arranged a meeting with followers of Morsus, the God of Curses. My goal is to recruit someone of High Archon Rank or higher to venture to the Fen of the Necromancer. If they agree, they could be the key to breaking Wuthum’s curse. It may take some time though as it is difficult to recruit someone of such a high Rank without something that will make it worth their while.”

Sorin nodded, feeling a glimmer of hope for Wuthum. “That’s good news. Wuthum’s curse is… ancient by our standards. It was placed on him by a follower of Beacon, and it’s been driving him insane for hundreds of years. But when I was there, he’d prepared several ways to stave off the worst of the hallucinations, at least temporarily. He should be able to maintain his clarity long enough to not instantly attack anyone that enters his domain.”

Zane grunted, nodding slowly as he processed the information. “That’s excellent news. Once we find someone who can help, I’ll owe Wuthum a debt for bringing my brother back. But,” he added, his voice growing quieter, “I’ll also owe you, Sorin. This wouldn’t be happening without your intervention.”

Sorin opened his mouth to respond, but Zane quickly shifted topics, his face hardening. “Now, about this situation with you and your brother Quin being Demigods…”

Sorin’s chest tightened at the mention of Quin. He knew this conversation was inevitable, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.

“It’s deeply concerning,” Zane continued. “If the news of your heritage—of both of you being Demigods—gets out, we’re going to have problems. Major ones. For now, I can’t go public with information about your brother, even within the Dark Pantheon. If we do, people will want to know where I got the information, and they’ll investigate. No matter how well we try to hide it, eventually, they’ll find out the truth about you.”

Sorin nodded in agreement. The thought of his brother being exposed to the world as a Demigod made him uneasy, especially considering the dangers involved. The Dark Pantheon would send out endless assassins against Quin.

“Pertaining to if you’re exposed as a Demigod,” Zane continued, “it’ll put a target on your back, not just from the Light Pantheon, but from some in our own ranks. The Dark Pantheon isn’t without its share of power-hungry individuals who wouldn’t want to hand over authority to anyone, even a Demigod. They might try to eliminate you before you grow strong enough to challenge them.”

Sorin swallowed hard. He had known the risks, but hearing Zane lay it out so plainly drove the danger home.

“You need to grow stronger, Sorin,” Zane said, his tone grave. “Stronger before your identity is revealed. Only then will you be able to defend yourself and claim the power that’s your birthright. Do you agree?”

Sorin nodded, though part of him felt conflicted. He understood the need for secrecy, but the thought of hiding felt cowardly despite the need for it.

Zane continued. “That being said, I need to investigate and find more information about Quin’s existence. If we can expose him as a Son of Solarius and the Light Pantheon is training him to become a powerful weapon waiting to be unleashed. Then the Dark Pantheon will unite and come together under a common threat. We will need everyone to begin preparing for war.”

Sorin tensed at the mention of investigating Quin. He didn’t want Zane—or anyone else—going after his brother. Despite their differences, despite the fact that Quin was being raised by Lief Stoneheart, Sorin didn’t want to see him harmed. But he also knew that Zane was dedicated to the Dark Pantheon above all else, and any objections Sorin voiced could alienate him and cause him to question Sorin’s loyalty to the Dark Pantheon. So, Sorin stayed quiet, forcing himself to nod in agreement, even as his heart warred with his loyalty to his brother over his loyalty to the Warbringers and the Dark Pantheon.

Zane studied Sorin’s face for a moment, as if sensing his unease, but he pressed on. “Preparing for war will be easy enough. No one will question it. The other academies are always on edge, and tensions in No Man’s Land are constant. Preparing for a larger conflict won’t raise too many eyebrows. The other academies might interpret it as us bolstering resources for a fight with them while the Dark Pantheon, as a whole, will see it as us expanding our war efforts in No Man’s Land. But no one will expect what we are truly preparing for and the true scope of what’s coming.”

Sorin leaned back in his chair, mulling over Zane’s words. Everything Zane said made sense—strength, secrecy, preparation. But Sorin couldn’t shake the feeling that, despite Zane’s reassurances, things were far more complicated than they seemed. The war between the Light and Dark Pantheons was always inevitable, and when it came as it always did, it would be bloody. And Sorin would be forced to choose the only side who would accept his bloodline—the side against his own brother.

Zane watched Sorin for a long moment, then nodded, seeming satisfied. “Good. You’re on the right path. For now, focus on your training. I’ll handle the politics. But make no mistake—when the time comes, you’ll need to be ready.”

Sorin nodded, determination settling in his chest. The path ahead was dangerous, but it was his path.

“Now,” Zane said, standing up and clapping his hands together, “let’s start your training.”

Zane looked Sorin over for a moment, then nodded sharply. "Enough chatting. Time to get to work," he said, his voice taking on a commanding tone. He led Sorin out of the office, through several halls, and eventually to a secluded section of the academy: Zane’s private training ground.

The space was impressive, a large, open-air courtyard surrounded by high stone walls. It was littered with training dummies, weapons racks, and various terrain features for tactical exercises. The area had clearly been designed for intense combat training, with enough space to practice in both close and open combat scenarios.

Zane crossed his arms and turned to Sorin. “Show me what you’ve got. Let’s start with the Warbringer Style my brother taught you.”

Sorin nodded and drew his twin swords, the weight of the blades familiar and comforting in his hands. He took a deep breath and began moving through the Warbringer Style stances, his body flowing smoothly between offensive and defensive forms. The twin blades cut through the air in perfect synchrony as Sorin demonstrated the precision of the style. His movements were fluid but sharp, the dual-sword technique allowing him to parry and strike simultaneously with lethal efficiency.

Zane watched with a critical eye, nodding slowly as Sorin worked through the various stances and techniques. When Sorin finished, he sheathed his swords and looked to Zane for feedback.

“Impressive,” Zane said, his voice carrying a tone of approval. “Magnus did well in teaching you. Your control is precise, your transitions are clean. I can see why my brother put his faith in you. But technique alone won’t win battles. I need to see your powers next. Show me what Vesperos has granted you.”

Sorin nodded again, taking a deep breath as he prepared to demonstrate his abilities. He started with the Veil of Vesperos (Shroud of Shadows).

Sorin raised his hand and called upon the dark essence of his father’s domain. Instantly, a cloak of shadow enveloped him, rendering him as an indistinct shadow. The darkness not only concealed his form but muffled the sound of his movements. Sorin stepped silently across the training ground, his presence obscured. Zane’s keen eyes tracked him not struggling to keep Sorin in his sights. Even if the spell was effective, it could not bridge the massive gap in Ranks between Acolyte and Exarch allowing Sorin to be easily spotted in the broad daylight.

“Effective,” Zane muttered, clearly impressed. “Your ability to disappear could prove invaluable.”

Next, Sorin released the shroud and demonstrated Echoes of Fear. He whispered softly, his voice carrying the haunting echoes of evil in the darkness. Though there were no real enemies present, the effect was unmistakable. The air seemed to grow colder, and even Zane visibly tensed, as though the whispers were gnawing at the edges of his mind. It was as if the very shadows themselves carried an unseen terror, ready to strike at anyone caught in their grasp.

Zane grunted, shaking off the effect. “That’s... unsettling,” he remarked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Good. Fear is a powerful weapon when used correctly.”