“We have no records of everything that came before. The Ones Above All are sure to be privy to the secrets of the universe, but all we are allowed to know is that the First Ages were not kind to anyone. Smoke and brimstone filled the void between worlds, seas larger than entire galaxies switched between scorching hot and freezing cold without apparent rhyme or reason, and godlike beings freely roamed the earth we are bound to.

  Some were great, some were terrible.“

  Grand Archivist Venarion Soratis, vagrant rider of the First Flight.

  Foaming waves kept kissing the sturdy hull of the Maiden of Steel, a military-grade vessel built by the realm’s best engineers to sustain long travel voyages, employed to transport only the most precious of cargos, by kings and queens, pirate lords, and shadow eminences.

  The ram adorning the keel was cutting the sea with deadly efficiency, reinforcing a solid oaken frame that silently glided under the sun's harsh rays, matched only by the metallic sheen in the ship’s figurehead eyes, a stern woman holding a spear pointed towards the sky, beautiful in its austere grace.

  The crew above buzzed around in the thousand ways only bored mariners could, the repetitiveness of a routine refined over years of travel, expressed with the mindless precision of a well-oiled machine.

  And while everyone aboard was more than experienced in handling gems, jewels, weapons, spices, forbidden knowledge, and whatnot, the current shipment of goods stood out from the rest in multiple ways.

  For one, by being alive and currently sparring with the first mate, and for a second by being maybe more bored than the barrelmen looking out of the crow's nest, to watch for a land that would not be seen for days yet.

  The few unoccupied sailors stood in a circle around the two fighters, hollering at the spectacle and betting on the winner of the bout. At the same time, two tall men were silently towering over the rest on the quarterdeck, watching the match with keen eyes.

  “Fuck me sideways, Aron, you have given me a few hot packages over the years, but this one is a little monster”, said the man on the left, the sunburnt skin of his face splitting in a twitching smirk, “What the fuck did you do up in that godforsaken mountain to make him turn out like this?”

  “What we had to, captain, simply what we had to” answered Warmaster Aron, high chaplain of the Amaranth Effigy, his glare never leaving the two fighters circling each other “Truth be told, our usual curriculum proved insufficient for the boy, as he took to it like a fish to water. I had to personally supervise the majority of his training during the later years, and now he stands before you as a diamond cut out from the blackest coal”.

  The captain grunted in affirmation, noticing the subtle smile on the face of the always impassive older man. He never knew what made his dubious acquaintance tick, but watching his little experiment mow through the ranks of his men surely put him in a cheerful mood.

  And even though the nature of their trade was not to be discussed, many years of fruitful collaboration had painted a clear picture in the shrewd skipper's mind.

  The order dealt in lives, the ones of their charges, and the ones of the powerful, training and trading children molded to fit the role of a guardian, while being slaves in all but name.

  “It truly is strange to think that somebody so talented will have to babysit some rich bastard’s bastards,” he mused thoughtfully. “Even though, perhaps this time, our client will be a bit higher on the ladder of the powers that be”.

  A meaty thud echoed over the sounds of the ship, bringing the captain's attention back to the fight, his eyes pausing for a second on the form of the bigger combatant, now lying with his back on the Maiden’s floorboard deck, a sheepish grin spreading on his face.

  “Goddam kiddo this beating was even worse than the last, how do you hit so hard with those little twigs of yours?” said the first mate, chuckling out an embarrassed laugh.

  The officer grabbed his opponent’s proffered hand, pulled himself up with a resonant crackle from the abused wooden floor, and laid an expectant look on the youngster standing in front of him.

  A nondescript figure met back his gaze, two piercing blue eyes almost out of place on a face yet to shed all its youthfulness, crowned by short golden hairs not going past the boy’s broad shoulders, framing a nimble yet muscular body that betrayed gruesome hours of training.

  “With ease,” Omri dispassionately thought while releasing his grip on the big man's forearm. “My teachers were very thorough in my education, and ‘hit where it hurts most’ is the first thing we had to properly learn, especially against a bigger opponent”.

  The recently defeated fighter stared back at him with a puzzled face. A small sigh escaped the youth's lips, and as he began to try and explain what he meant, the Warmaster's cold voice cut through the vessel's noises like a well-oiled blade.

  “You can train your muscles, you can train yourself to resist pain, and you can also train your bones to some extent, but you cannot do the same with your tendons, joints, and organs. It would be impossible for Omri to overcome you in a contest of strength, so all he needs to do is sap away at your weaknesses and take out your options before you can fold him like an actual twig”.

  A wry chuckle left the first mate, as he shifted to acknowledge the Warmaster's imposing figure. The old monk looked much younger than his age, scarred hands crossed over a broad chest, the cloak on his shoulder trying and failing to hide the silhouette molded by uncountable battles, only the graying hairs betraying his years.

  “Well, I’m more of a bash-your-head-in kinda guy, but I’ll keep it in mind, and if ever find myself against some bastard meaner than me I’ll be sure to thank ye for the lessons".

  A soft, exasperated sigh escaped from Aron's mouth “Well, that’s as much as I can help. I guess there is a reason they still need us”.

  The truth of the matter was that while fighting and wars were common everywhere in the world, an understanding of the art of combat came to be only from particular institutions.

  Dismissing the officer with a nod, he turned his attention toward the pupil, who was now standing at rest, looking at him and waiting for a command.

  A quick hand gesture sent the boy in motion, his slender form silently weaving his way towards the imposing figure, while the small crowd that had surrounded the fighters started to return to their tasks, some still focused on Aron but oblivious to the silent communication between master and pupil.

  Omri reached his liege side glancing upon his face, waiting for the elder verdict “he does not seem, happy…but he does not look too disappointed either”.

  The stony glowering in his eyes was neither warm nor cold, just a placid lake that left one to wonder at its depths. After another interminable second, a single word quietly filled the air.

  “Decent”.

  “Thank you sir” he muttered, “and that’s a top score from the old man,” he thought, quickly managing to smother the smile that was appearing on his face.

  He gruffily grunted once before turning his back, peering at the sea.

  “You got a couple of hours before sunset, attend to your duties. Dismissed”.

  “At once, sir”.

  Omri clacked his left heel in a small bow and made his way below deck, nodding at the shipmates he met on the way. The bowels of the Maiden were still a novelty to him, but for all its complexity, it paled in size when compared to the winding, twisting corridors of the monastery.

  In a couple of minutes, Omri got to his master’s cabin, the dimly lit room showcasing little less than a bed, a chest, and a wardrobe, a luxury compared to the mariners' living quarters.

  At the bed's feet lay a sleeping bag with a few books scattered around it, representing half of the kid’s possessions, the other half being the sword at his waist and the clothes on his back.

  After tidying up his sleeping space and the studying supplies, he approached the armor stand holding the elder’s equipment and began removing every piece, checking and oiling the leather straps before moving onto the reinforced joints.

  The boy's efficient, almost mechanical movements, betrayed many hours spent on the task.

  As he shined the entire thing his mind began to wonder.

  At first went over his recent match with the first officer, as he was told, the best moment to analyze a fight is after it, if you still can, but something was creeping in the back of his mind, preventing him from achieving the usual focus.

  “Is it truly fair?" wondered Omri, as he sat down on the hard floorboards, the thought slithering like a snake in every recess of his mind, in a chorus with his master visage speaking his “wisdom” “Life is often unfair, Boy, be grateful for what you have.”

  And for many years, that has been enough. Omri grew up knowing that the only thing he had was himself, and maybe his mentor, for he had never been truly free in his life.

  Born a noble’s bastard son, abandoned in a “sacred” order, anointed to battle and of battle, rising above his peers only to be recruited by the Warmaster himself, he never had a real choice.

  But still, it was enough for him.

  All the training, the education, the etiquette lessons, the boring mathematics, and even the poison trials were not enough to break him.

  The loss of his innocence in the arena of the Ordalia, the lashes endured without making a sound.

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  The blood, the sweat.

  The tears.

  All for the promised light at the end of the tunnel, a position above his station, a seat at the table, or at least, the ability to stand guard before the room in which the table hosted the council.

  He was special, everyone said.

  The Warmaster favorite, the Warmaster pet, the Warmaster project.

  “Why me? Why did they sell ME!?”

  The thoughts pressed harder, his memory seared with the temple grounds dueling arena, the insane regiment imposed by the order almost a bittersweet memory now that he was finally headed towards his “destiny”.

  Omri saw betrayal and deceit, injustice and unfairness.

  “Why didn't Master Aron do anything about it? Doesn't he want me to be his successor?” Those two single questions kept crashing in his mind, like the Timekeeper swinging his mace to the Sunday bell, and without even realizing it, a knot-like lump formed in his throat, his vision fogged and then he could hold himself back no longer.

  Hot tears began to streak his face, as he kept cleaning and stashing the armaments laid in front of him.

  A tear fell on a particularly serrated sword breaker and was quickly cleaned away, the oilcloth wiping the watermarks in a single swipe. He sheathed the blade and tried to do the same with his face to no avail, as his eyes would just not stop.

  Grimacing through the tangle of emotion, Omri thought of Aron discovering him in this state, and, wrecked by the sudden rush of…things he never before felt, he tried to regain a semblance of composure.

  For all the years he spent being trained to be a perfect artifact of war and violence, he was also a boy who had his already messed up life snatched by a single sentence from people he could never hope to reach, and his breaking point was finally reached.

  Omri took more than a moment to calm down, his rough breaths steadily slowing down as he kept working through the pain, and in the end, he managed to bring himself back together, for he had no choice.

  In a week or so he would disembark, and his new life would begin with a new unknown master and a new set of trials to shatter.

  And while those thoughts did not put him at ease, the long-lost curiosity of childhood awoke something for the youth and even helped settle him a little, as a new slew of doubts reached the forefront of his mind.

  "Who knows who my new owner will be? A righteous man? A spoiled little child? A harsh taskmaster ?” He could not know, only time would answer him, and fortunately or maybe unfortunately, his answer was coming closer by the day.

  Still lost in thought Omri's hand reached the final piece of the Warmaster cuirass, and once he finished the master's equipment he moved on to his sword, a straight blade with two edges that started with a no-frills handle composed of a simple T-guard, the one-and-a-half hand grip covered with a thin layer of leather to make it easier to grip leading to a larger than average sturdy forte that tapered in a razor-sharp, utilitarian foible.

  Once every sword, knife, and dagger was well oiled and sheathed, Omri moved onto his personal workout routine, followed by two sets of stretches, and once every chore was over, his gaze met with the languid last lights of the setting sun coming through the round window of the cabin.

  It had been a long day and sleep was beginning to set in. Having stowed his belongings, the kid lay down in his bed, intent on getting some rest.

  As he covered himself with the rough blanket, his mind tried once again to bring him back to the dark place he wandered into before, but for once his bone-deep fatigue was a relief, and the boy, aching all over, was finally greeted by the sweet touch of a dreamless night.

  It was the sailor's screams that woke him up.

  In the weeks of travel, Omri had grown accustomed to the noises of the ship, but something was different this time.

  Something was wrong.

  The noises were more agitated, more frantic, and an undercover of terror laced every strangled word shouted by the mariners.

  A glance to his right was enough to remove the remaining doubts from the youth’s mind. His master was not in his bed.

  Fully awakened as a spike of adrenaline shot through his mind, Omri got up from his bunk, his legs still uneasy from the bundled-up sleeping position.

  Wobbling a bit, he reached for his weapons, strapped them to the belt tied to his waist, and quickly made his way through the cabin doors.

  The vessel’s interior was eerily quiet, with only the thumping of many feet quickly scurrying on wood as the melody that accompanied his rise to the top decks.

  As he got closer to the Maiden's upper layers, the noise got higher, and the boy's worry grew with each new sound reaching him.

  Reaching the main deck, Omri began to look around, confusion etched on his face.

  It was a moonless night, the sky and the sea were only distinguishable from each other due to the countless stars dotting the horizon. The cloudless firmament shone small lights on the inert sails, dimly illuminating the pandemonium happening on the main decks.

  Seeing all the crewmembers buzzing around carrying ropes, hammers and nails confused him. “Was a storm coming to the ship?“

  There was not a burr of wind, and from what he could tell, the vessel was still in the sea like a rock at the bottom of a lake.

  This particular thought was nipped in the bud by the captain's ringing voice that for a moment overpowered the noise of the busy crew.

  “Secure everything not nailed to the deck, rope everything you can to something solid, and be prepared for the worst men!!!”

  Instinctively, Omri's head moved in the direction the voice came from, and he saw the captain along with the first mate, both of whom had their hands on the rudder with terrified expressions on their faces, a mixture of complex emotions riveted in the lines of their eyes.

  It took him a second to locate his liege, perhaps the only person standing still in the commotion happening around them.

  The man was a towering figure looking out at the sea from the starboard side, both hands on the rail and his head tilted as if he did not understand what his eyes told him.

  Omri followed his mentor's gaze, a startled expression on his face as the oily darkness of the sea seemed to devour the light of the sky above, but as his vision adjusted to the darkness, shyly lit by the lanterns on deck, a feeling of sheer terror came over him.

  Either the horizon was rising or they were descending.

  As the seawater churned in circles around them, understanding finally reached him: a whirlpool. They were trapped. The seemingly massive caravel was caught in the currents like a toy boat in a quickly emptying bathtub, and there was nothing they could do.

  Omri froze in front of the rage of the sea, and as the ship kept turning faster and faster, creaking noises started to come from the tortured wood of the Maiden.

  The kid's thoughts went to the first few days of their trip when a storm had caught up with them, and the boisterous laughs of the captain assured him of their resilience.

  “We are unsinkable lad, my beautiful lady is a steel jewel in a sea of flimsy garbage.”

  The words of the sun-bleached captain seemed a bit too hopeful, now that he was looking at him, shouting orders at the top of his lungs, a mixture of fear and awe warping his face in front of the element’s fury.

  Shaking himself out of his stupor, the youngster finally started to move, each step made unsteady by the rocking of the Maiden, each second bringing the vessel down and up, the steep leaning to the right getting more pronounced, to the point that Omri found himself having to compensate to stay balanced.

  Reaching his master's side seemed to be an ordeal, every step so seemingly slow that when he got to the imposing figure, he was almost sure the deck would simply collapse under his feet.

  But looking at the stoic man, methodically ripping off armor piece after armor piece from his body, tearing leather straps instead of bothering with the latches, Omri managed to almost calm down, a single line of thought cutting through everything else.

  “Master, what… What are we supposed to do?”

  The older warrior stared back at him with a weird glint in his eyes, and after an interminable second, gruffly answered, “Take off your boots and shirt Boy, and strap your weapons better, your belt is sloppy”.

  Omri seemed dazed by that seemingly random order, and the Warmaster's left brow started to rise in a questioning manner.

  Shaking himself from his stupor, he complied, and once done with the task, he focused on his mentor figure, now wearing little more than a loincloth, exposing the body of the old fighter.

  A mishmash of scars covered the entire left side of the man's torso, with smaller nicks, pricks, and cuts all over his legs and arms.

  The youth felt weak facing the veritable wall of muscle and healed tissue that was his master, and just as he was about to speak out again, to ask what would they do, how would they live, Aron spoke again, in an almost gentle voice.

  “You know, I think I would have not disliked fighting alongside you”.

  The boy's eyes looked up, and he found himself staring at a sight more surprising than the whirlpool of death that was about to devour them all.

  His master was smiling, a sad, quiet thing accompanied by the faintest twinkle in his glare.

  “What?” the kid said.

  “And remember to break water with your feet or hands when you land”.

  “What?” he repeated, just to find himself wrapped in the trunk-like arms of the warrior, who then hoisted him over his head.

  From this unusual vantage position, Omri's attention was brought back to the maelstrom of events happening around them, from the mariners scurrying around, to the various vessel’s implements breaking down and falling in the sea, to the captain of the Maiden, now standing still near the figurehead, no longer shouting nor trying to steer the ship.

  He looked down, and as the Warmaster adjusted his grip on him, he once again tried to say, “Master, what are you doiiiiiiiing?!!“

  Just as he started to speak, the older man cocked his arms and with a loud grunt of effort threw him overboard toward the short side of the whirlpool.

  The massive strength of the throw left the boy without breath, and, as he was sailing in the air, the harsh gale of the sea at night cutting his face, he nonetheless managed to put both arms in front of him.

  The impact with the water felt like when he fell from the tall tree in the training courtyard when he was little, and once again in a matter of seconds he found the wind knocked out of his lungs, his vision threatening to fade, only the freezing cold embrace of the ocean to keep him awake.

  The youngster emerged from the shallow depths disoriented and confused after the throw, and quickly clearing his eyes from the saltwater, he saw the masts of the Steel Maiden a fair distance away.

  Still incredulous from what just happened, Omri felt the current tug at him towards the death spiral, and all feelings of confusion and doubt fled him, his training taking over in an instant.

  He turned his back to the sinking boat, dived underneath the surface, and started to cut through the treacherous waters like a torpedo, his whole body undulating against the whirlpool residual currents, surfacing only whenever the burn in his lungs got too strong to resist.

  Omri kept swimming without looking back for what felt like an eternity until the vortex call could no longer be felt in his strides.

  Finally feeling safe enough to break water completely, the boy almost got scared by a rhythmic rapping sound that kept following him, only to realize a few moments later that it came from his chattering teeth.

  Taking stock of the situation was a sobering moment for the young man, and the feelings of existential dread that he felt during his time in the cabin came stronger than ever, this time knowing that his future would most likely be an unjust death in the sea with no one to know his name or story.

  He almost gave up, then and there.

  But he didn’t endure everything the order threw at him and more just to give up, he didn’t fight the entirety of his short life just not to fight the day of his death.

  And so, fight he would.

  Gathering his remaining strength, Omri began swimming in the same direction as before, this time with slow, purposeful strokes, trying to manage his stamina the best he could, making each swing of his arms count.

  With every stroke, the cold bit deeper, and the hotter his chest and head felt.

  After what felt like hours amid this delirious swim, the boy's mind started wavering, but he refused to stop, he refused to die.

  Somewhere, somewhen during his maddening marathon, Omri felt a tug at the center of his being. A pull towards his soul, almost a voice that kept saying “You are almost there, you are almost done”.

  And it was the last thing he felt before darkness claimed him, as the cold embrace of the sea wrapped his arms around his shaking body.