Promise

For the next three days, Argon and Brolan found themselves adjusting to their new home, a much-needed respite from the whirlwind of events that had led them here. The house, once alien and unfamiliar, began to grow on them, its walls resonating with the quiet hum of an anticipated routine.

Brolan, ever practical, made daily trips into the town. Laden with a list of essentials, he frequented the local market, weaving through its bustling lanes, haggling with vendors, and acquainting himself with the rhythm of the town's life. Food, spices, soaps, candlesticks - he filled their home with the necessities of daily living. The routine was mundane, a stark contrast to the chaos of their recent past, but it brought with it a comforting sense of normalcy.

Back at the house, the smell of fresh bread and cooked meat began to permeate the air, seeping into the wooden walls and filling their abode with inviting warmth. Argon, meanwhile, busied himself with the maintenance of their arms and armour, ensuring their readiness for any imminent calls to duty.

The days were uneventful, but they brought with them a sense of calm. The complexity of their predicament seemed to recede, if only for a while, as they sank into the rhythm of their new life. As the days rolled into nights and back into days, the house felt less like a temporary shelter and more like a home, providing a sturdy base from which they could tackle the challenges yet to come.

One day, the routine was broken by an insistent knock at their front door. Brolan, ever vigilant, rose to answer it. Standing on the threshold was Ser Garrick, a figure whose reputation in the Baron's service was as imposing as his stature.

"Step aside, slave," Garrick commanded, his voice as sharp as the sword at his hip. Brolan moved aside, a scowl on his face, but he didn't protest as Garrick strode into their home.

"Hey, fuckface," Garrick greeted Argon, his tone dripping with sarcastic cheerfulness. He cast a disdainful glance around their humble dwelling. "I see you two are hard at work while the territory's going to hell."

Ignoring the jab, Argon rose from his place and faced Garrick, his expression calm but alert. "Why are you here, Master?" he asked, his voice steady.

Garrick smirked, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Firstly, to fill in some gaping holes in your knowledge," he said. "And secondly," he paused, his gaze falling on Argon with an intensity that made the room seem colder, "to bring you to the boys. You're to test your mettle against his knights. If you really are more powerful than seven of them , as the rumors say, then you'll be made a knight."

His words lingered in the air, a silent challenge hanging between them.

"And the documentation of your knighthood, if you earn it," Garrick continued, a hint of amusement in his voice, "will be sent to Viscount Farrenway. He's always interested in the new players in his realm."

The news was unexpected, but Argon met it with a cool determination. The trials had just begun.

Garrick continued, leaning further into the casual arrogance that seemed to be his second skin. "You know, usually it'd take years of toiling and serving to even sniff the possibility of knighthood, but you, Argon, you're a lucky bastard."

A smirk twisted his lips, one that suggested he found some amusement in the situation. "Even I can't deny that your skill and strength are something else. It's not every day that a commoner can spend with the Baron's top knights."

He paused, his smirk widening. "And that's the real kick in the balls, isn't it? The Baron can't have some random nobody showing up his own knights. It's bad for morale, looks shit for him. So Eldridge has no choice but to elevate you to their level."

Garrick's tone had a cynical edge to it, but his words rang with brutal honesty. It was a strange and quick rise from thrall to prospective knight, but it was the reality they faced now.

Argon merely nodded, absorbing the information. His reply was simple, and despite the situation, it held a note of sincere gratitude. "Thanks, teacher." He understood the challenges that lay ahead but remained undaunted. He was ready to face them head-on.

"But don't get your hopes up, shithead," Garrick added, his tone a stark contrast to Argon's measured response. His smirk didn't falter as he leaned in, one eyebrow raised mockingly. "It ain't all sunshine and rainbows from here. If you do well, take down a few of those pampered knights, you'll get your fancy title. If not, well, you can go eat shit."

As Argon's face hardened at the crude ultimatum, Garrick continued with a roll of his eyes. "And since you're playing in the big leagues now, there are a few things you ought to know. For one, artefacts." He tossed the term casually into the air, leaving it hanging between them. "These are items of power, forged with ancient technology, with history soaked into every pore. In the right hands, they can turn the tides of a battle, even a war."

Garrick didn't let up, his smirk still etched onto his face as he continued. "Knights like me," he said, jabbing a finger in his chest, "can only get their grubby mitts on low-tier artefacts. Your best bet is to gather all three of them. They can be activated once a day - kind of like the 'attribute one' you're so fond of using."

"I know," Argon interjected, a glint of amusement in his eyes. He chuckled, the sound echoing through the room, taking Garrick aback.

"I've already got all three. The attribute, the healing, the shield," Argon revealed, his tone nonchalant as though he was discussing the weather. His words, however, hung heavily in the room.

Garrick's smirk vanished, his eyes widening in surprise. The colour drained from his face, replaced by a look of sheer shock. This was unprecedented. An untested commoner already had in his possession three artefacts.

"That... that changes things," Garrick managed to stutter out, his mind reeling. He had expected a lot from this encounter, but this was something else entirely. The game had just become a lot more interesting.

Garrick's smirk returned, albeit somewhat strained. He crossed his arms, his gaze now holding a new respect for Argon.

"Well, shit... You're probably gonna fuck up a lot of knights, then," he said, a touch of begrudging admiration in his voice. "Even with your pitiful skills, all three artefacts... that's something else."

He paused, mulling over the implications. "Only four knights in this kingdom have all of them. Ser Branton and Ser Lancel, the Baron's pampered brats," he spat their names with a hint of disdain, "Ser Harold, the old bastard, and myself."

The list of names seemed to hang in the air, a daunting reminder of the challenges Argon would soon face. But armed with his artefacts and his unyielding determination, he felt ready to face whatever was to come.

Before Argon could digest that piece of information, Garrick launched into another. "We're in the Kingdom of Seric right now, you're aware of that, right? But there's another kingdom on this continent, the Kingdom of Tharen. It's south of Seric, their folks are a bit peculiar but they've got strength in numbers and resources."

The revelation hit Argon like a swift punch, a new layer of complexity added to his already complicated situation. He listened intently, absorbing the details while his mind began to strategize. This was the game he was part of now - a game of power, influence, and survival.

His voice dropped lower, the levity from before replaced with deadly seriousness. "And here's another gem for you - there's always trouble brewing between Seric and Tharen. Skirmishes break out along the border like a rash, popping up here and there. Makes things unpredictable, dangerous."

Garrick was on a roll now, his tone impassioned as he delved into tales of beasts he'd encountered in his travels.

"Out there, it's a shitshow, full of monsters that'd turn your blood cold," he began, the words spilling out of him. "Direwolves, for instance - huge bastards, all muscle and fangs, the stuff of nightmares."

He continued on, weaving a tapestry of horror and awe as he recounted his encounters.

"Giant Spiders, venomous and fucking fast, always lurking in the dark. Wyverns, small dragon-like beasts that'll torch you in a heartbeat. Basilisks with their deathly gaze that'll turn you to stone before you even get a chance to shit yourself."

He paused for a moment to catch his breath, his eyes gleaming with wild excitement.

"Then there are Harpies, part woman, part bird, and all menace. Minotaurs, a hellish blend of man and bull, unmatched in raw strength. Chimeras, a mishmash of animals in one deadly package."

His voice echoed through the room as he went on.

"Cyclops, one-eyed giants that could crush you underfoot. Manticores, lion-bodied creatures that could fire poisonous spines from their tails. Gorgons, their hair a mass of writhing snakes, their gaze deadly."

Garrick's face took on a far-off look as he continued.

"Griffins, majestic as fuck but don't let that fool you - they're deadly. Mole Rats, harmless-looking but vicious when cornered. Trolls, massive brutes with strength that could rival a Minotaur's. And finally, Goblins, small, sly, thieving bastards with a knack for causing trouble."

His recital complete, Garrick gave Argon a level look, his smirk returning. "Welcome to the wild, boy. Hope you survive the experience."

"Not done scaring the shit out of you yet," Garrick laughed, the echo of his mirth bouncing off the stone walls. "Curses do exist, just like you heard the other day. It's some real evil stuff, twisting reality and minds alike."

He paused, the levity in his voice replaced by something more sombre. "There's only one God, and we live in the light of our Lord."

Then, his smirk returned, and he leaned in closer. "And just in case you've forgotten, the Baron Eldrige? He answers Viscount Farrenway. That man is the big boss here."

He fell silent, letting the weight of his words settle over Argon. This was the world they were navigating, fraught with danger and uncertainty, and they'd need more than just their wits to survive it.

With a gruff snort, Garrick pushed off from the wall he had been leaning against. "Alright, enough of this chit-chat," he barked, his tone dismissive. "Time to head to the training grounds. The Baron and all his knights are waiting, every single one of them."

He turned, making his way to the door, his words lingering in the air behind him. "They've been summoned back from the surrounding villages. Got that peasant revolt and they're planning to snuff it out. Can't have the common peasants thinking they can take on the big dogs, can we?"

Without waiting for a reply, Garrick moved on, leaving Argon to process the news and prepare for what was to come. The world outside was changing rapidly, and he would need to adapt just as quickly if he was to survive.

Garrick guided Argon and Brolan through the streets, finally arriving at the grand manor. The structure loomed overhead, its elegant architecture a stark contrast to the bare brutality that lay within its grounds. They made their way towards the back, where a vast expanse opened up to reveal the barracks and training area nestled within the manicured gardens.

The training grounds were a sight to behold - a broad, flat expanse of hard-packed sand surrounded by towering wooden palisades. Practice dummies lined on one side, their straw bodies punctured with arrows and slashed by swords. Weapons of all sizes were scattered around - gleaming swords, hefty axes, and brutal maces, each one a silent testament to the violent undertakings that took place here.

In the centre of it, all was the sparring circle, a large circular pit filled with sand, bleached bone-white by the sun. The arena, for all its simplicity, was a formidable place where strength was tested, and reputations were made or shattered.

On the periphery, an elevated stand housed several rows of seats, and it was here that the audience was seated. All eleven remaining knights were present, their ominous Dayless black armour gleaming under the sunlight. They sat there, an imposing wall of black, their faces hidden behind their dark helms. The Baron was there, his stern face surveying the field, the council members flanking him.

As Argon's eyes scanned the assembly, they fell upon the familiar faces of the council members. Each held a position of power and influence, their statuses evident in the way they carried themselves.

Lady Isolde, the Baron's daughter, was seated gracefully, her poise belying the steel within. Her eyes, sharp and discerning, took in the scene below with an interest that was almost academic.

Ser Branton and Ser Lancel, the Baron's sons, were not far from her. Their appearances were mirror images of their father - strong, imposing, and radiating an aura of unyielding authority. Both were among the few who held the power of all three artefacts, a fact that did not go unnoticed by Argon.

Ser Harold and Ser Edwin, two of the higher-ranking knights, sat together. Their faces were etched with the scars of countless battles, each telling a tale of survival and victory. Ser Harold, another holder of the three artefacts, wore his power as comfortably as he wore his armour.

Master Wymond, the Treasurer, was a stark contrast to the knights. He was a man of books and numbers, but his presence here underlined the importance of the day's event.

Finally, Bishop Osmund, a man of the cloth with an air of serene calm about him. His role in the council spoke volumes about the influence of faith in the governance of their land.

Seeing them assembled, Argon felt a pang of determination. These were the people who held the reins of power, the ones he needed to prove himself to. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the challenge ahead.

The air was thick with anticipation as Garrick, Argon, and Brolan entered the circle, the silence broken only by the occasional clank of armour and the whispers of the watching crowd.