Waiting Grounds

“No, thank you.” I raised my hands in a defensive gesture, fingers still dusted with dry leaves and grit. My voice came out tense but polite, like someone trying to refuse a suspicious offering without offending the lunatic host.

The man arched a thick eyebrow, clearly surprised by my refusal.

“Seriously?” he said, in that indignant tone of someone who’d just witnessed a crime against hospitality. “Don’t you know water is the liquid of life?”

I blinked slowly. The phrase echoed in my head with all the irony of a poorly rehearsed play.

‘Says the guy who’s been cursing this ‘liquid of life’ nonstop until now…’ I pressed my lips together to keep the comment in. Even my inner sarcasm couldn’t keep up with this guy’s volatility.

The old man stared at me as if I’d just rejected some sacred treasure, waving the nearly extinct cup in his calloused hand.

Axel let out another low snore — an involuntary comic soundtrack.

I sighed, feeling the weight of the backpack on my back and of the conversation on my shoulders. ‘Just got here… and I already want to leave.’

Silence hung for a second. I was ready to excuse myself with some lame farewell when a firm voice burst from the distance:

“Captain!”

The man froze. His previously scattered gaze sharpened. His shoulders tensed. The cup halted halfway to his mouth.

“…hm.” he murmured, narrowing his eyes as he slowly turned toward the voice.

The air shifted. Fast footsteps crunched over the dry leaves, accompanied by hurried, irritated voices, like a small mob trying to keep its outrage in check.

And I, still standing with my hands half-raised, could only think: ‘Great. There’s more people.’

“Here! I finally found him!” yelled one of the voices, now closer.

“Finally! Someone found him!”

“Damn old man!”

“What kind of captain gets put in lockdown and still escapes?!”

“Worst part is, he’s huge, wears noisy heavy armor, and no one ever hears him coming!”

The complaints came in waves, each more indignant than the last. Footsteps multiplied, stomping in rhythm like a mini army invading the clearing. I could see, far off at the edge of the old square, a man in armor sprinting toward us at an absurd speed — way too fast for someone hauling that kind of weight.

And yet… still far.

The old man beside me gave a melancholy sigh, like someone accepting his fate.

“It was nice meeting you, kid.” he said, starting to rise, knees cracking like old wood. “But unfortunately… my time has come.”

“Captain! S-T-A-Y R-I-G-H-T T-H-E-R-E!” the voice roared again, now absurdly close.

I turned back to where the man had been, ready to see some kind of theatrical escape — a ridiculous dash or a dramatic leap.

But he… was gone.

‘What?’ A chill ran up my spine. The air shifted behind me, and then… A heavy hand rested on my shoulder.

“Kid…” the voice was low, right next to my ear, almost intimate. “Nice sword you’ve got there. Never lose it.”

I felt his presence vanish before I could even turn my head. And when I looked… nothing. Not a trace of him. No rustling. No tracks. Just the distant echoes of approaching voices and the cold wind at my neck, mocking me.

“Captain… Damn it…” muttered the armored man now face-to-face with me.

And there I stood, in the middle of the silent clearing, facing a panting man who looked about ready to collapse. Beside me, Axel still snored peacefully, completely unaware of the growing chaos. On the ground, the now-split wooden cup seemed to be the only proof that the old man had actually been there, or that I wasn’t about to have a complete mental breakdown.

‘That old guy’s a ghost, right? Has to be…’

More footsteps emerged between the trees, leaves crushed under heavy boots. The voices drew closer through the undergrowth, and before I could come up with any excuse or explanation…

"ARHAAAAA!" the soldier in front of me roared, frustrated, throwing his arms into the air. His eyes looked ready to pop out of his head, and sweat streamed down the side of his flushed face. “I was this close to catching him!”

He grabbed his helmet with both hands and yanked it back with a metallic scrape, gasping like he’d just run a marathon. He was trying to recover his dignity, which didn’t work too well with the grass stuck to his chestplate and the expression of raw despair on his face.

Ten more men burst into the clearing, some panting, others clearly irritated, all in combat uniforms. One of them, with graying hair and sharp features, a short cape adorned with embroidered insignia, spoke with authority:

“Kyle… the Captain?”

Kyle, still hands on his hips, sighed in disgust: “He got away.”

The response dropped like a rock in the middle of the group.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed another, stomping the ground with a metallic boot. The impact echoed with a hollow sound, mingling with the group's collective frustration.

“Again…” muttered a younger soldier, rolling his eyes. “That’s the tenth time this month.”

“And it’s the first day of the month!” another groaned, visibly questioning his life choices.

“Enough nonsense!” the grey-haired man raised his voice, and his presence brought immediate order. “We’re recapturing him. He’s not to leave the waiting grounds.”

As they started organizing, muttering and grumbling, I raised a hand slightly, trying to seem polite, or at least not guilty.

“Uh… good morning?” I ventured.

Ten heads turned to me in unison. For a moment, absolute silence. Even Axel stopped snoring, as if sensing something was off.

“Ah!” Kyle was the first to react, pointing at me like I’d just crawled out of a magician’s hat. “Right! There were still two kids in the woods!”

He stepped closer, boots creaking on the soil. He looked me up and down, the way someone might assess the state of a scarecrow. I was covered in dust and scratches, cloak torn, sword strapped on with a makeshift leather loop.

“Well, Kyle…” the grey-haired man said with a tired look, “since you’re the one who found him…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Kyle muttered, raising his hands in impatience. “Handle the paperwork.”

“And take the wolf too,” added another, eyeing Axel with curiosity.

“Seriously? A wolf?”

“At least this one sleeps. Unlike that damn captain.”

“I bet the wolf’s better disciplined.”

“And less bearded.” someone murmured, earning a few suppressed chuckles.

The group began to disperse — some still complaining, others already planning search routes. The grey-haired officer gave a final command before leaving:

“If you find any trace, don’t pursue alone. Wait for reinforcements.”

“Sure, just like last time, right?” someone snarked.

“We’re not repeating that chicken coop fiasco,” another added.

As the other knights moved off into the woods, still arguing and swearing about the elusive “captain,” Kyle stayed by my side. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes said something else, the worn-out look of someone who had seen too much and was still expected to keep looking.

He observed me in silence for a few seconds, sizing up not just my appearance but my condition. I was filthy, hair tangled, clothes torn and stained with mud, sweat, and dried blood. My muscles trembled faintly from adrenaline and exhaustion.

“All right, kid,” he finally said, voice calm but direct. “Which one are you? And the wolf... is he tamed? Your familiar?”

I stayed quiet for a moment. The old man’s words still echoed in my head, his mocking tone, endless complaints, the stories between sips, all blurred now by the exhaustion pulling me down like a stone tied to my ankle.

I exhaled sharply, not looking him in the eye. “The one with the Patriarch’s blood,” I replied, flat and heavy, more warning than introduction. My back ached, my eyes burned, and my patience was hanging by a thread.

Kyle raised an eyebrow, but his expression didn’t change. No surprise, no reverence. Just the steady continuation of a functional apathy, like someone who had dealt with youthful pride more times than he could count.

“The wolf?” I went on, glancing briefly at Axel, still sleeping like it was a lazy spring afternoon. “His name is Axel.” I hesitated. The next question slipped out almost involuntarily: “Is he my familiar?”

I thought for a moment. ‘Familiars are bound by the soul… a life-or-death bond.’

“No.” I shook my head. “He’s not my familiar… but you could say he’s tamed. We’re companions.”

Kyle nodded slightly, without judgment. Experience showed in his measured movements, in the way he spoke to me like an adult despite my exhausted appearance and apparent age.

“So you’re Alexander.”

The way he said my name… no ceremony, no hesitation. Just stating a fact he already seemed to know.

He then started to turn away but stopped mid-motion, as if something else still needed to be said.

“As for the wo—”

My eyes narrowed instinctively. ‘Axel! Don’t you dare call him ‘puppy’ or something like that…’

Kyle noticed. A faint smile flickered at the corner of his lips, barely there.

“Axel,” he corrected himself naturally. “All I ask is that he doesn’t bite anyone… or cause trouble.”

“He doesn’t bite without reason,” I murmured, eyes still narrowed, more to hide the exhaustion than out of hostility. “And if someone does get bitten, they probably deserved it.”

Kyle’s brief chuckle was carried off by the light breeze that swept across the field, mingling with the distant sounds of clinking armor and hawks calling in the early morning. He turned fully now and began walking, gesturing subtly for me to follow.

“Yeah. You’re definitely Alexander. Famous for that sharp tongue,” he remarked, as if checking off a note in a mental report.

I just rolled my eyes and followed him, trying not to trip over my own feet from sheer fatigue.

We walked a beaten dirt path flanked by uneven stones and small watchtowers. The sky was beginning to bloom with the golden hues of morning. The place, he explained, was called the Waiting Fields — or Waiting grounds, as most called it now, though it once had another name no one really remembered. There was a symbolic weight to the popular expression. It was where the chosen awaited the confirmation of their worth: as hunters, as knights, or as heirs worthy of their houses.

“The square where we first met is called Blade Square,” Kyle said as we passed through a large wooden gate carved with symbols. “It’s named for the statue you saw. It represents Dracknum’s belief that no matter what it is, anything can become a weapon.”

The field itself was surprisingly vast. The paths between pale stone and dark wood structures crisscrossed like veins, connecting buildings of various purposes. There were squires and young trainees sparring with spears, swords, and shields in open training areas — some under the strict watch of veteran knights clad in ornate armor with gleaming pauldrons, others simply repeating drills in disciplined silence, or running endlessly.

I also saw servants and apprentices cleaning hallways, polishing weapons, hauling buckets of water and food. The hierarchies were blatant in the way they lowered their heads or averted their eyes around those better dressed. But even in the simplicity of their duties, there was precision — as if everyone knew that the smallest mistake could cost dearly.

We passed places like the Arena, a circular stone pavilion set in the heart of the knights’ training grounds. There, the clashing sounds of steel rang out — internal duels and smaller ceremonies took place under the watchful gaze of veterans.

Then we went to the Forge, where the air was thick with the scent of burnt iron and sweat. Blacksmiths and apprentices labored under the intense heat of eternal embers, runes pulsing faintly on every anvil and blade. Rhythmic hammer strikes filled the space like a constant war drum.

We also passed the Lesser Dormitories, where common squires and cadets rotated between training and brief moments of rest. The walls were simple, but the air of discipline was unmistakable.

The Watchtowers rose like silent sentinels around the field, their tops vanishing into the morning sky. Up there, sharp eyes scanned everything — not just external threats, but any sign of internal unrest as well.

And of course… the Library. An imposing structure of bluish stone and columns etched with runes that told silent stories. From it came an unmistakable scent of old parchment and bitter tea. When we stopped in front of it, I felt a knot tighten in my throat.

Fascinated, I took in every detail as if I were standing before a lost sanctuary. My feet, however, were caked in mud and dried blood. Setting foot inside would be almost sacrilegious.

‘Damaging a book here would be mortal sin…’ I thought grimly. Because of my obsession with reading, shared both by me and him, my sense of honor wouldn’t allow me to enter in this state. I fought back the urge with effort.

Kyle noticed my look. “You’ll go in there eventually. Just not today.” He said it matter-of-factly and walked on without waiting for a reply.

We crossed into a wide, bustling area where other descendants were waiting. Some sat in circles, playing cards, chatting and laughing. Others, however, trained with fury in their eyes, as if fighting was the only way to forget how much time they’d already lost. The scars on their bodies spoke louder than words.

I noticed the stares: sharp, fixed. Some pitied my condition, others had a mix of empathy and detachment, and a few looked on with pure resentment.

‘They know who I am’. Or at least, they think they do. Maybe… maybe they’re right. After all, according to Kyle and that old man on the run, I’d spent an extra year inside the forest, which meant they’d been stuck here another year because of me.

“And to think I just got here and I’m already a celebrity…” I muttered under my breath, trying to mask the discomfort as I returned a few stares with a wave and a smile. An obvious act of provocation.

At last, near the end of the day, we reached a solid three-story building. Gray stone, dark roof. This was where the newly arrived were housed. The structure looked old but sturdy — built to last, like everything else in this place.

Inside, it was cold, with simple tapestries hanging along the walls. Ancient crests stood out among the dark and golden tones. The air carried a faint smell of damp stone and mold, as if time passed more slowly inside.

Kyle stopped on the second floor, in front of a wooden door reinforced with iron.

“This is your room. Number 17. Baths are down the hall to the left. Clean clothes are already inside. You’ll be inspected before the ceremony.”

He paused, eyeing me with the faintest corner-smile. “But don’t worry about rest time… if your companion keeps going the way he has, you’ll spend another year here.”

The jab landed right in my gut. ‘How long has Nikolas been here to be that well known?’ But I didn’t answer. Just nodded.

I pushed the door open with what little strength I had left.

The room was small and utilitarian. A wooden bed with heavy blankets, a black iron wardrobe, a desk with a dried inkwell and a plain glass cup. From the small square window, a timid light streamed in, painting pale golden stripes across the stone floor.

Without even removing my boots, I threw myself onto the bed. The mattress was hard, but it felt like heaven.

Axel, who had followed me in silence, leapt to the farthest corner of the room, near the only window. He curled up lazily on the old makeshift blanket I’d fashioned for him. Let out a soft yawn, his amber eyes glowing one last time before vanishing into the shadows.

I sank into the mattress, overwhelmed with comfort, trying to process the flood of information still swirling in my exhausted mind.

‘Now that I finally have a moment…’

‘If he was confined… where did he get the armor and sword?’ The image of the rebellious captain, clad in steel like he’d just marched out of a fortress, haunted me. None of it made sense.

I mumbled into the mattress, voice muffled: “Second time today… How did Axel even get the blanket out of the bag?”

I glanced sideways at my small companion, now fully cocooned in it like a worn-out chrysalis. The blanket, which should’ve been packed away, wrapped snugly around him.

I sighed in defeat. “Honestly… doesn’t matter. I’ll think about it tomorrow…”

The last thing I thought, as the weight of the world finally pulled me into sleep, was:

‘That was just the arrival… and I already feel like I’ve fought through three wars.’

And then, everything went dark.