Huge Road Ahead

El Ritch weaved through the throng of students, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of chatter, laughter, and the occasional barked challenge. His hands pressed against shoulders and backs as he pushed his way forward, eyes fixed on the Academy's peaked roof that jutted above the crowd. It was his only guide, a lighthouse amid the storm of bodies. 

Just as he thought he'd found a path, he collided with what felt like a wall. His nose smarted from the impact, and he stumbled back, blinking up in confusion. A towering figure loomed before him, broad-shouldered and solid as a mountain. The man's face was rugged, his jaw square and shadowed by faint stubble, but what struck El Ritch most was the sound that followed. 

"I do not remember no northerner child with no horns." The voice was unexpectedly soft, lilting with a distinctly feminine pitch. "Every horned child has a tiny protruding horn. Where is yours?" 

El Ritch's jaw hung slack, his words caught somewhere in his throat. It wasn't the question that silenced him—it was the dissonance between the man's hulking form and the voice that now carried down to him. 

"I—I—I, um, sir, I was told by Chief Julian to find a teacher here—" 

The man's brow furrowed, and he cut El Ritch off with a sharp wave of his hand. "The Chief recommended you personally? Are you El Ritch?" 

El Ritch nodded quickly, and the man groaned, his massive hand lifting to scratch at his temple. "Late. You're late. The first day of your Academy, and you're late. Typical." He gestured toward the main building. "Go. Speak to the principal. Straight ahead, first room you'll see." 

Without waiting for further instruction, El Ritch nodded and slipped past the man and made his way toward the Academy's entrance. 

The building loomed larger up close, its rough-hewn stones weathered by years of storms and time. The doorway was wide and arched, framed by intricate carvings of horned beasts locked in fierce battle. As El Ritch stepped inside, the scents of wood polish, old leather, and faint smoke greeted him. The entry hall stretched wide and long, its vaulted ceiling supported by beams of dark wood. Lanterns hung from chains, their glow warm and steady, casting light onto tapestries depicting hunters battling enormous beasts. 

The hall stretched wide, its floor polished to a dull sheen by years of use. Students bustled here too, though the crowd thinned as they dispersed into smaller groups or disappeared down shadowed corridors. Straight ahead, a grand double door stood, its surface carved with intricate symbols of horns and beasts locked in combat. This, he surmised, was the principal's office.

But it was the space to his left that caught his attention. Beyond a low stone archway lay an open courtyard, its center dominated by a sandy fighting pit. Students sparred there, their movements swift and deliberate as they struck at each other with wooden weapons or clashed barehanded. Around the edges of the pit, others stood in groups, some shouting encouragement while others practiced their stances with unyielding focus.

Raised platforms lined the edges of the courtyard, where more advanced fighters demonstrated their skills to attentive onlookers. The clang of steel rang out, mingling with the occasional grunt of effort or barked instruction. Training dummies, scarred and battered, stood in rows along the far side, their stuffing spilling out from repeated strikes.

El Ritch paused for a moment, his eyes wide as he took it all in. The courtyard teemed with life and purpose, the energy of it pulling at something deep within him. But the man's words echoed in his mind, and he tore his gaze away, hurrying toward the principal's office.

He approached the doors, his footsteps echoing faintly in the grand hall. With a steadying breath, he reached out and pushed them open.

The heavy door groaned on its hinges as El Ritch pushed it open, revealing a modest room dimly illuminated by the soft glow of a lantern on the desk. The old woman seated behind it looked up from a stack of parchments, her silhouette framed by the light streaming through a window at her back. Her features were gaunt, her silver hair tied into a loose bun, and her hands moved with deliberate care over the notes. On the walls behind her hung weapons—swords, lances, and shields—scarred relics of battles long past, though there was no sign they were used for more than display.

She squinted at him, her head tilting slightly as she spoke, her voice gravelly and low. "Yes? How may I help you?"

El Ritch swallowed, nerves twisting his tongue into knots. "Yes, ma'am—Principal—ma'am," he stammered, then cleared his throat, forcing the words out more clearly. "By Chief Julian's orders, ma'am, I… I've come to be admitted to the school."

The old woman chuckled, though it was a sound dry as parchment crumbling, more cough than laugh. "Ah, so you're the one." She leaned back in her chair, her gaze sharp as it swept over him. "But you're late. A pity." She paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "You'll need to wait, dear. The second admissions group will be arriving shortly, and I've interviews yet to conduct."

El Ritch's heart sank, the weight of his lateness settling heavy on his shoulders. Still, he nodded quickly, his voice low but resolute. "Yes, ma'am."

"Take a stroll of the academy while you wait," she added, waving him off with a faint smile that felt more like an afterthought. "Familiarize yourself. It will do you good."

He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment, turned, and left the room. As he walked back down the hall, her words echoed in his mind. Hope is something treacherous, he thought, making him remember the witch, brining back a familiar smile.

Drawn to the sounds of clashing steel, he made his way to the training grounds. There, the fighting pit buzzed with activity. Students sparred in pairs or demonstrated techniques under the watchful eyes of their peers. El Ritch lingered at the sidelines, his gaze fixed on the movements of a boy wielding a sword.

It wasn't the battles themselves that intrigued him but the rhythm of their strikes and parries. Crude as it was, there was an underlying grace to the way the sword swung down and the body shifted to avoid a retaliatory blow. He watched their forms, the careful balance in their stances, and the precision in their steps.

"Novices aren't allowed in the training field!" A sharp voice broke through his focus.

El Ritch turned, his eyes landing on a slender boy perched on the edge of the arena. His arms were crossed, his face twisted in mild annoyance as he called out again. "Didn't you read the parchments of laws, or do you just like breaking rules on your first day?"

"I'm here to take a tour of this place!" El Ritch shot back, his tone more defensive than confrontational.

The slender boy tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face, but the exchange had already caught the attention of others.

A large, chubby boy nearby—his face flushed from exertion—stepped forward, his voice booming. "It's dangerous for juniors here, even during practice!" His hand rose in a gesture of warning as he approached El Ritch, his expression stern but not unkind. "Apologies, but no further, please."

El Ritch stopped in his tracks, nodding slightly. The chubby boy's presence was disarming in its solidity, his tone firm yet polite.