Invitation to his own faction

Hours slipped by before Arian’s heavy eyelids slowly parted. Moonlight spilled through the crack of the window, mingling with the flickering yellow of a candle burning in the corner—a trembling glow that made shadows dance across the walls.

As he stirred awake, his friends crept from the corners of the room toward him. His blurred vision gradually cleared, and the first thing he saw was his black, furry wolf, silently resting its head upon the bed.

“Hey, kid, you really scared us,” Derikaron said, a relieved smile spreading across his face as he approached his friend.

Maro, on the other hand, gave Arian’s right arm a firm smack. “If you’d woken up any later, I’d have gone after that bastard’s blood myself.”

Arian tried to laugh, but dry, hacking coughs caught in his throat. He pressed a hand to his chest and leaned weakly against the side of the bed.

“Sorry, guys… I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Shadowolf leapt down from the bed and pressed himself into Laina’s arms—Laina, who had been standing by the door until that moment.

Arian gave her a trembling glance. “Thanks to you too… you didn’t have to come, Laina.”

Laina lowered her head and whispered softly, “You don’t need to thank me. And… I should apologize. Thank you for saving me.” Her voice was so quiet that if anyone had breathed sharply, it might have gone unheard.

For a moment, everyone fell silent. Then Sairon, after a brief pause, pointed toward Arian’s right hand. “By the way… can you tell me why your hand had turned black?”

Everyone’s gaze instinctively fixed on that hand—now seemingly normal once more.

Arian fidgeted slightly, idly playing with his fingers for a moment, recalling a time when Zinarfel had told him that no one must ever know about this. A cold bead of sweat formed on his forehead, but he skillfully forced a smile to mislead the others.

“Umm… well, you know, it’s just a side effect of my mana deficiency.”

“Ah, it’s nothing, really. Whatever happened, the important thing is that you’re okay, right?” Derikaron said, as simple and cheerful as ever.

Sairon’s facial muscles tensed slightly, betraying his disbelief—but what could he do?

The crackle of the candle and its flickering flame sent a silent message to the others: it was past midnight, and they needed to return to their dorms as quickly as possible.

“Arian, we have to go, but don’t worry—we’ll be back with you in the morning.” Leo said, his tone calm, bidding farewell on behalf of the group, and one by one, they left through the door.

Arian’s blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling. His hands stroked Shadowolf’s black fur as he thought about the last words Zinarfel had spoken.

“Look, Arian, the last lesson I’m giving you is this: understand that your past is your future, and your future is your past.”

During the three nights since his last meeting with his teacher, he had thought about this constantly.

“That old fool! He never spoke clearly… what does that even mean? …I miss him.” Tears streamed down his face. Gradually, his eyelids grew heavy, and he drifted into sleep.

The scent of morning had arrived. All the candles had melted, letting the sunlight pour into the room.

Knock, knock.

Arian, with half-open eyes, asked the person to come in.

He immediately tried to rise, intending to show proper respect, but his body still refused to obey his brain’s commands.

“Sit, sit—there’s no need to get up.” King Andreas himself had come to see Arian before the ceremony began. “Hmph, who would have thought you’d be causing trouble from the very first day.”

“I-I apologize, my lord… I shouldn’t have lost myself.” His voice trembled, unsure how to show proper respect.

“Hey, kid, no need to be so anxious.” He placed his hand over Arian’s head, letting his fingers brush through the dark strands of hair.

“Forgive me, my lord… it seems your visit wasn’t just to check on me! May I ask why you’ve honored me in such a way?”

Andreas laughed loudly. “You really are a clever one! Well, I wanted you to choose my faction today!”

The question written across Arian’s face was enough for Andreas to continue.

“You see, Arian, in our school there are four factions, each tied to a king and that king’s philosophy. My faction is called the Vanguard of the Present—remember that. The rest will be explained to you during the ceremony.”

“Forgive my boldness, but may I know the philosophy of your faction, my lord?”

“Of course you may! You see, I believe that neither the past nor the future truly matters… Why the surprise? That is my philosophy.”

Arian paused for a few breaths, then continued, “May I ask you a question?”

“By all means,” Andreas replied, a small laugh revealing his white teeth.

“You know, my teacher once told me that the past is your future, and the future is your past… but it seems to me that this is completely different from your philosophy?!” This time, Arian’s voice carried none of the previous anxiety—only his curiosity shone through.

“Well, a teacher’s words are for an old teacher and belong to the past. Don’t dwell on them too much.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. I’m grateful that you came to see me, humble as I am… but if I may, could I take some time to think about the faction?”

“Oh, don’t worry, there’s no obligation. But I’d be happy if you joined my faction—see, I personally came to invite you.”

Andreas left just as he had arrived, leaving Arian confused, to ponder his own future.

Is the future truly your past, or is everything happening in the present?