6 New Beginnings

"Lead me to your commander... for there is much to discuss and even more to be done."

~ ~ ~

As Vhal stood in the corridor, his words hung in the air like a weighty promise. The knights exchanged quick glances, their eyes communicating their surprise and awe at the unexpected return of their young lord. Slowly, they began to lower their shields and sheathe their swords, their movements synchronized, like a well-drilled military unit.

With a nod from their leader, the knights fell into formation, flanking Vhal on either side. Their metal-clad footsteps echoed through the corridor as they walked with purpose, the soft clinking of their armor accompanying them. Vhal could feel the weight of their gazes upon him, the collective realization of his return settling in.

As they made their way down the corridor, they encountered a group of handmaidens and servants, their presence signaling the beginning of a new day within the manor. The workers had been going about their tasks, chatting and laughing amongst themselves, until the sight of Vhal and his escort brought them to an abrupt standstill. Their eyes widened in astonishment as they took in the changes that had come over Vhal since they had last seen him.

The young lord had always been a figure of quiet nobility, but now he exuded an air of authority and confidence that commanded their attention. His jet-black hair framed a face chiseled with sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline. His ashen gray eyes, accentuated by silver rings, held a depth of knowledge and determination. Vhal's presence seemed to fill the corridor, leaving no doubt that he was the master of this domain.

The handmaidens curtsied in deference, their faces a mixture of shock and reverence. Vhal acknowledged them with a nod, his demeanor regal yet approachable. He had been isolated for far too long, and the sight of familiar faces from the household staff was a welcome one, even if half of them were traitorous bastards.

As they continued their walk, Vhal couldn't help but take in the beauty of the manor with fresh eyes. He had been to the ancestral manor many times, but his long slumber had given him a newfound perspective. The weathered stone walls, the intricate tapestries, and the ornate chandeliers that hung from the ceilings—all of it spoke of a grandeur that had been faded by time.

Yet, beneath the layers of dust and neglect, he could still see the elegance and majesty that this manor once held. The Ashfell Manor had been a place of power and influence, and Vhal was determined to restore it to its former glory.

Finally, they reached a side entrance of the manor, and the heavy oak doors swung open, revealing the world outside. Vhal stepped into the daylight, squinting against the sudden brightness. A courtyard spread before him, well-tended but lacking the vitality it once had.

In the center of the courtyard, a training area had been set up. Men-at-arms sparred with wooden swords, their movements precise and practiced. At the helm of this training session was a figure known to all as Botolf "Threesword," the captain of the guard. He was a legend among the men, known for his unmatched skill and experience throughout the kingdom.

Botolf stood tall, his white hair and beard flowing freely, a testament to his uncaring and rugged demeanor. His gray and black armor, adorned with patches of brown leather, shone in the morning's rays. He barked orders at the ten men-at-arms undergoing training, his voice carrying through the courtyard.

In his hand, he held a training sword, while strapped to his back were two slim sheathed swords on his left, and diagonally to that was one greatsword strapped on his right shoulder. A myriad of knives and daggers coated his torso, down to his boots. The wooden blade he held flashed in its polished smoothness as he demonstrated techniques with unmatched speed and precision.

The clink of the guards' armor as they escorted Vhal into the courtyard drew Botolf's attention. He turned abruptly, his sharp eyes widening in disbelief as he took in the sight before him. The legendary captain, known for his unshakable demeanor, was momentarily stunned by the unexpected return of his young lord.

Vhal took in the ex-general's appearance.

Botolf's face, weathered and scarred, bore the marks of countless battles and years of service. His white hair and beard, flowing freely, added to his rugged appearance. A network of red scars crisscrossed his left cheek, a testament to the dangers he had faced in his lifetime. His right eye was covered with an eyepatch, leaving only one eye exposed, a piercing blue gaze that seemed to assess every detail with unyielding scrutiny.

The men training under Botolf ceased their sparring and stood at attention, their eyes fixed on Vhal. The courtyard fell silent, the only sound the soft rustling of the breeze through the leaves of the surrounding trees. All were in shock, including Botolf.

Vhal stepped forward, his gaze locked onto Botolf. It had been years since he had last seen the captain of the guard, but the memories of their interactions were still fresh in his mind. Their relationship had been fraught with tension, and Vhal couldn't deny that he deserved all of the hate garnered by the captain. He knew Botolf never liked him, hated him even, but he was undoubtedly as loyal as they come.

"Botolf," Vhal began, his voice steady and filled with a sense of authority, "I would say it's good to see you again, but I suspect you don't share that sentiment. Nevertheless, I need to speak with you as soon as this training session is over. Meet me and Salazar in the ancestral hall."

The captain of the guard remained silent for a moment, his one visible eye locked onto Vhal's. His expression was inscrutable, a mixture of surprise, curiosity, and perhaps a hint of begrudging respect. The men training under Botolf, still in shock at the unexpected return of their young lord, watched the exchange with rapt attention.

Finally, Botolf let out a deep, rumbling laugh that reverberated through the courtyard. "Well, I'll be damned," he grumbled, a wry grin tugging at the corners of his scarred face. "I always knew you'd be trouble, and damn was I proven right," he muttered, his voice loudening for the next words, "young lord, I never thought I'd live to see the day you'd come back."

Vhal managed a small smirk in response. "It's good to see you too, Botolf, even if you don't mean it. We have much to discuss. Meet me there after."

The captain nodded in agreement, his tone more serious now. "Aye, we do. The world's changed quite a bit since you've been gone, and not all of it for the better. But we'll save the catching up for later. Let me finish training these lads, and I'll join you in the manor's hall. Let's hope it'll be good to have you back, young lord."

With that, Vhal nodded, a weight lifted from his shoulders at Botolf's appearance. He turned and began to make his way back to the manor, the clink of the guards' armor accompanying his every step. There was much work to be done, and Botolf was just one piece of the puzzle. 

~ ~ ~ 

Botolf watched as Vhal and the guards disappeared back into the manor, his mind still racing with disbelief and a sense of foreboding. He had never expected to see the young lord again, not after all these years. The Ashfell family had endured a terrible fate, and many believed that Vhal had met the same end as the rest of his kin.

Turning his attention back to the recruits, Botolf couldn't help but ponder on the implications of Vhal's return. The world had vastly changed since the young lord's disappearance, and not necessarily for the better. Races had divided, kingdoms and rogue warlords had risen, and even distant self-proclaimed deities had been inciting their own causes. Their kingdom, Avenir, was once again embroiled in conflict and political intrigue, and House Ashfell had fallen from grace.

Botolf had always been a pragmatic man, loyal to his duty above all else. He had served the Ashfell family for decades, even when he had clashed with the god-awful and infamous young lord. Vhal had been a reckless and impulsive youth, more interested in harrassing and tormenting others than in fulfilling his responsibilities as heir.

But now, just standing before him, Vhal seemed different; changed in a way Botolf could not discern, and that bothered him.

The changes in Vhal were impossible to ignore. When speaking, he innately exuded an air of authority and confidence that Botolf had never seen before. It wasn't the trained arrogance of most nobles but rather a determined resolve—a burning will simmering within the young lord. Vhal's demeanor had somehow shifted; it was as if he had been forged in the crucible of adversity and had emerged stronger, and wiser. A feeling Botolf knew all too well, for pain had been his constant companion throughout his life.

Botolf couldn't help but feel a sense of begrudging respect if that was indeed the case for the young lord's transformation. The hideous, ghastly pale strips of scars littering Vhal's neck told that story with words unsaid. If almost dying truly changed the young master, he would've done that years ago, Botolf bitterly mused. He knew better than anyone that adversity had a way of molding a person into something greater, and it seemed that Vhal had embraced an ideal, a goal to cling to. Even if Botolf felt that Vhal had been trash before and would always remain trash, by his honor, he had no choice but to follow his lord.

Turning his attention back to the recruits, Botolf continued with their training. He barked orders and demonstrated techniques with unmatched skill and precision. The clumsy men-at-arms, youths with decent potential, watched him with a mixture of awe and determination, inspired by their captain's polished forms as he went through them once again.

However, as Botolf went through the rest of the training regimen, instilling in recruits the discipline and skills needed to be true soldiers, his mind kept returning to the young lord and how his reappearance would affect his own life and goals in this tumultuous world. The future was uncertain, and Botolf couldn't help but feel that they were all walking into a storm, one that might test the very limits of their strength and loyalty... 

~ ~ ~ 

Salazar watched from a discreet distance as Vhal conversed with Botolf in the manor's courtyard. The events of the morning had taken a turn none of them had expected, and it was clear that Botolf was still trying to process the return of his young lord. His keen eyes observed the exchange, the captain's gruff demeanor slowly giving way to a begrudging respect as he spoke with Vhal. It was a delicate dance of power and authority, and Salazar couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope that this reunion might just be the catalyst they needed.

Vhal and Botolf continued their conversation, and Salazar decided it was time to take his leave. There were matters to attend to, preparations to be made for the days ahead. He stepped away from the courtyard, making his way through the manor's dimly lit corridors; his thoughts swirled with possibilities and plans, and he knew that there were preparations to be made.

As Salazar walked, lost in thought, he found himself heading towards the ancestral hall. His thoughts stirred on the potential of the young master even before his slumber, which now seemed to becoming into fruition. 

With two imposing doors, reinforced with a blackened metal unknown to even himself,  Salazar pushed open the doors and entered the ancestral hall, a grand and cavernous room that had once been the heart of House Ashfell's power. At the far end of the hall, a gleaming throne sat, an imposing and slightly demonic structure made of pure obsidian.

The throne was jagged and encrusted with twinkling gems--rubies, sapphires, amyethests, a collection of wealth was embedded and situated upon it--which seemed to pulse with an eerie light. It was a symbol of the house's dark and enigmatic past, and Salazar couldn't help but feel a sense of reverence and trepidation in its presence.

Salazar stood before the throne, as grand hall's massive doors swung once more behind him with an eerie creaking sound, closing in a resonating thudd. He turned to see young master Vhal approaching, his footsteps echoing through the hall. The young lord's expression was a mix of  curiosity and deep thinking. 

"Salazar," Vhal greeted him as he drew near. "I trust everything is proceeding as planned?"

Salazar nodded. "Yes, young master. I've sent out the few carrier hawks we had to ask for support from the few friends your father had, though I fear it will fall deaf on pray ears."

"No worries, Salazar, I expected nothing out of it anyways," muttered Vhal, who's  eyes were drawn to the obsidian throne for a moment, and then he turned his attention back to Salazar.  "What those letters were intended to do was to stir their minds. Why are you asking for resources? Have I awoken? Has something changed in our situation? Let them ponder on it." Vhal paused, taking a few steps towards the throne as ran his ashen colored hands across the embedded jewels on the armrest. 

"Salazar." Vhal turned to him with bright eyes. "What do you know of my ancestral lineage? I know most on this continent, empire, and our kingdom is predominantly human in race, but most have a bit of immortal blood flowing through their veins, do they not?"

Salazar thrown off by the sudden comment, thought on it. "Yes, young master, I suppose your right. Take myself for example, my father was Human but my mother had High Elf who escaped the elvish cruscade a hundred something years ago." 

"Hmm," Vhal hummed, "I see, that's good to know. Now, Salazar there's something I've been meaning to discuss with you.... when can I begin my training in the art of magic?"

Salazar met Vhal's gaze, with a knowing and amused look in his eyes. "Magic, the ancient and powerful force that flows through our world, as the common folk say... is not the right word for it, young master." 

"Huh?"

"Magic is an abstract word that is used to classify the manipulation of forces unknown to the ignorant. What you meant to ask young master, was when can I start training in the ways of the cosmic power known as Mana." Salazar paused, waiting for the words to sink in before continuing. 

"You see, Mana too, is an abstract term to conceptualize the power that runs through all of us, and binds the realms, the lands, everything, all of existence together. Mana is a term that simply means in the old divine tongue, Power. It is the manipulation of tangible power. You see, Mana comes in various forms, such as wind, water, fire, etc. But so too, does it come in the form of other concepts, war, sword, spear, stealth... Mana cannot be constrained in perception of what it is, or can be, because it is boundless and so that is your first lesson, young master." 

Vhal furrowed his brow, understanding dawning upon him as he reiterated his first question, "So when can i start, Salazar?" 

Salazar chuckled, "Ah, even now your impatience remains, young lord, Hah! To follow down a path of mana, requires extreme dedication and discipline, my lord. However, that said, there is a prerequisite."

  "A prerequisite? What is it?" Vhal asked eagerly. 

Salazar gestured to Vhal's own body. "A strong body, my lord, is as essential as a strong mind. Mana requires physical and mental harmony. You must first improve your physical condition before we can delve into the intricacies of Mana."

Vhal sighed, his determination unwavering. "I understand, Salazar. I will do whatever it takes--"

The creaking of the doors resounded once more, and Botolf's huge figure emerged, followed by his loud and gruff voice, "I'm here young lord." Botolf burped, a bottle of whiskey in hand. "Now, what this meeting all about?" 

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Author's Note: World building will gradually intensify, in tandem with the unfolding of the plot. Happy Reading!