PROLOGUE & CHAPTER 1
Every moment, ambition carves new paths and shapes new destinies.
Every person has a price. Some pay it in gold. Others in blood. The most dangerous pay it in conviction.
The world is not so different from a clockwork mechanism. Every cog has its purpose. Every spring its tension. And if you understand the machinery well enough, you can make the hands point to whatever hour you desire.
When war blossomed and harvested its fruits from the darkest corners of the human soul, I was nothing more than a young spectator.
I watched ambition and power merge into a single beast, feeding an empire with the lives of its subjects.
I fled from it.
My village had become a wasteland of ash and smoke. The dead themselves were denied rest. Creatures of the night stripped them even of their flesh.
Yet fear was never my enemy.
It was a silent ally.
A companion that whispered questions into my ear while others chose to look away.
Why does the world race so eagerly toward its own destruction?
Why does power change everything it touches?
Why is truth hidden so carefully?
For years I searched for answers.
And with every answer I uncovered, a conviction rooted itself deeper within me.
Gold does not rule the world.
Armies do not rule the world.
Not even the gods rule the world.
Information does.
The oldest currency ever traded and the deadliest weapon ever created.
Chapter I — Identity
After days spent wandering the fragile border between life and death, I awoke in a refugee camp on the outskirts of a city untouched by war.
Alone.
Frozen.
Starving.
Yet alive.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I was certain death would have to wait a little longer.
One morning, a guard noticed me shivering in the corner of a makeshift tent. Without a word, he tossed me a piece of bread.
To him, it meant nothing.
To me, it meant another day.
It was the first act of kindness I received after fleeing my village.
That day I learned something important.
People do not always help others out of virtue. Sometimes they do it out of pity. Sometimes out of habit.
Yet regardless of the reason, kindness opens doors that force can never break.
Several days later, a refugee lost control in front of the guards.
I watched him shout.
Threaten.
Spill his anger upon men who carried swords.
It did not last long.
A single order was enough.
His rebellion died before it had truly begun.
That was when I learned that justice and power are not the same thing.
One is an idea.
The other determines the outcome.
Among the refugees, I met other children who had lost everything.
Some shared food.
Others shared water.
Those who possessed little offered it to those who possessed nothing at all.
Thus, I discovered the value of alliances.
A lone person may survive.
But united people endure.
Later, my attention turned toward the priests.
I watched them raise prayers to the gods while famine consumed the camp.
I heard them speak of divine will while disease carried children away.
And no matter how many died, the answer remained the same.
“The gods know best.”
That was when I began to wonder whether faith was truly about truth.
Or merely about convincing people to endure what would otherwise be unbearable.
I saw priests heating water through magic.
I saw guards felling trees with a single strike from rune-carved axes.
And I could not help but wonder:
Was any of it truly necessary?
Water could be heated with firewood.
Trees could be cut with ordinary tools.
Yet nobody seemed willing to choose the harder path when an easier one existed.
That was when I learned another truth about humanity.
People are not drawn to power itself.
They are drawn to comfort.
Power is merely the means by which they obtain it.
And once something becomes part of their lives, surrendering it feels more painful than never having possessed it in the first place.
One evening, as darkness settled over the camp, I noticed a guard speaking with a nobleman.
I could not hear their words.
But I saw the purse.
I saw how the weight of metal made the guard’s hand smile before his lips ever did.
Soon after, the gates opened.
The nobleman entered.
And when he left, he was not alone.
Two children followed behind him.
No one asked questions.
No one intervened.
The guard kept his purse.
The nobleman claimed his reward.
And the children lost their future.
That was when I learned a lesson I would never forget.
Everything has a price.
Bread.
Loyalty.
Faith.
Power.
And sometimes...
Even a person’s destiny.
As time passed, the war showed no signs of fading. If anything, its grip on the realm tightened with every passing season. The endless demand for soldiers left workshops empty, fields abandoned, and noble estates desperate for labor.
Craftsmen searched for apprentices.
Merchants searched for assistants.
Nobles searched for servants.
And slavery remained as common as the sunrise.
Every lord needed capable hands to keep his household running.
As for me, fortune—or perhaps opportunity—favored my curiosity.
Whenever I found myself with idle time, I would search for a stick, a broken branch, or anything capable of leaving marks upon the earth. Then I would spend hours drawing whatever occupied my thoughts upon the bare ground.
One day, a royal scribe arrived at the camp.
He had spent months traveling between refugee settlements near the great cities, searching for an apprentice.
For reasons I could not yet understand, he became fascinated by one of my sketches.
I had copied a rune I had seen engraved upon the swords carried by the camp guards.
The old man studied the drawing in silence.
He was elderly, frail, and carried the weary expression of someone who had spent far too long searching for something he was beginning to believe no longer existed.
Without interrupting my work, he approached with slow, measured steps.
“I see you’re drawing something interesting,” he said softly. “Tell me, boy... have you ever held a quill before?”
The question caught me off guard.
“No.”
“And would you rather draw on paper than dirt?”
My social skills were limited at best, so I answered with the same blunt honesty I always did.
“Yes.”
The old man smiled.
It was a small smile, but a genuine one.
After our brief exchange, he spent nearly an hour speaking with the guards and priests who oversaw the camp.
I paid little attention to their conversation.
I simply continued drawing.
Eventually, he returned.
“Gather your belongings,” he said.
I looked up at him.
“From this day forward, you won’t have to worry about tomorrow.”
For several moments, I simply stared.
I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to react.
So I nodded.
Then I ran to my tent.
I said goodbye to the few friends I had made in the camp and placed my trust in the old scribe.
A decision that would change the course of my life.
The journey to the castle was long and uncomfortable.
The carriage rattled endlessly over uneven roads while forests and distant hills passed beyond the windows.
For a time, neither of us spoke.
Eventually, the old man broke the silence.
“What is your name, boy?”
“Reno.”
“A curious name,” he said. “Short. Sharp. Easy to remember.”
He offered a faint nod.
“You may call me Master Noste.”
I repeated the name silently.
Noste.
A name that would come to mean far more to me than I could have imagined.
“Tell me, Reno,” he continued, “how did you end up in that refugee camp?”
“My village was attacked. I escaped through the forest until some guards found me and brought me there.”
“I see.”
A shadow crossed his face.
“And your parents?”
“They died.”
The words came easily.
Too easily.
“I am sorry to hear that, boy.”
When Master Noste asked these questions, I did not shed a single tear.
Not because I felt no pain.
But because I had long ago convinced myself that tears solved nothing.
For a moment, the old man simply looked at me.
Then he sighed.
“You are a brave child, Reno. Most would have given up long ago.”
“My parents told me to be brave.”
Noste smiled.
A sad smile.
“Then I believe they would be proud of you.”
I remembered very little about my parents.
Fear had stolen many memories from me.
Their faces had become blurred.
Their voices faded with time.
Yet for some strange reason, those words remained.
Be brave.
No matter what happens.
Be brave.
The rest had vanished into darkness.
Those words endured.
By nightfall, we reached our destination.
As soon as the carriage stopped, two guards approached to greet us.
I stared at them in awe.
Their armor gleamed like molten gold beneath the fading sunlight.
Strange runic engravings shimmered across polished plates of metal.
They carried themselves with an authority unlike anything I had ever witnessed.
For a brief moment, I forgot to breathe.
Until then, I had believed Master Noste to be little more than an eccentric old man with an unusual affection for books and paper.
Looking at those guards, I began to realize how wrong I had been.
Master Noste was far more important than he appeared.
And I had just stepped into a world far larger than the one I had left behind.
