"The... capital?" Velren repeated, blinking his eyes in confusion.
Is he serious?
His gaze shifted to the old man lounging on the bench, casually sipping his drink under the shade of a weathered oak tree in the garden. The old man didn't elaborate, he just took another swig, fixing his gaze on the clouds above like this was any other morning.
'The capital... as in the kingdom?'
That was... a first.
Velren rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away. Why now? Gramps had never—not once—asked him to tag along during his visits there. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it before. The capital, with its bustling activities, was supposedly a place brimming with life and intrigue. But...
He never really cared to go.
The forest was enough—peaceful, familiar. His life, though repetitive, was stable. Hunt, gather, train. Rinse and repeat. No need for the noise and complexities of city life.
And yet...
Curiosity had poked at him occasionally. During those rare tis when Gramps disappeared for days on end, Velren had asked the wolves about it—only to receive half-answers. Fenrir once shrugged and told him that sotis, the old man would deliver herbs, or visiting old friends. It was hard to say, really.
And then there was the other reason.
Velren's lips twitched, recalling that one particular incident a while back. Curiosity had gotten the better of him after Gramps returned from a trip, with a bag slung over his shoulder, reeking of travel and city gri. When Velren peeked inside, expecting supplies or trinkets—dozens of bottles had greeted him. Dozens. Not that it was surprising. At this point, it'd be stranger if there weren't booze involved.
But this? This was new.
"Why the sudden trip?" Velren asked, arching a brow.
Does he need an extra hand or sothing? To carry his booze? Surely—
"I need your help hauling a fresh supply back from the kingdom. Bottles ain't gonna carry themselves, kid."
A vein visibly popped on Velren's forehead.
"Unbelievable..." he muttered.
Here he was, half-thinking it was sothing important. Sothing serious, maybe even life-changing—but no. Booze. It was always about booze.
He sighed heavily and turned to walk away, shaking his head at the stupidity.
"Boy," Gramps called again.
Velren paused, glancing back. The old man finished his bottle with a final swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then stood up. His usual laid-back deanor had shifted.
"I do need you for sothin'," Gramps said, with a low voice.
"And it ain't just about the booze."
Velren's shoulders tensed. He wanted to believe it was just another one of the old man's antic, another joke—but sothing about the way Gramps looked at him...
"...Alright."
***
The morning sun filtered through the towering trees of Sylmare Forest, casting dappled shadows across the winding dirt path. Velren followed a few paces behind the old man. Before they left, Gramps had swapped his usual tattered clothes for a black robe—familiar yet rarely worn, reserved for the tis he went to the kingdom.
Velren glanced at the old man, curious about sothing.
"So... how long to the capital?"
Gramps didn't look back.
"Quite a ways. Few hours if we keep pace."
"Right..." Velren rubbed the back of his neck.
"And what exactly are we doing that you need to tag along?"
"You'll see when we get there," Gramps replied curtly.
Velren frowned. What the heck? Since when was the old man this cryptic? Simple, to-the-point questions, and yet... no clear answers. Even his posture seed different.
It was unsettling.
Breaking the silence, Gramps spoke again:
"How's the training goin'?"
Velren blinked at the sudden shift.
"Uh... so-so? Fenrir's got running myself into the ground, while Sköll just naps half the ti. Honestly, it's whiplash going between those two.
Back then—after that kidnapping incident—Velren had apologized to Fenrir. The wolf accepted without much fuss, softening his stern gaze just enough to acknowledge the boy's sincerity. During that conversation, Velren had also ntioned that his Vital Crest had finally manifested. Fenrir's response?
"That ans you can start training anyti."
At the ti, Velren, curious to explore how far his Vital Crest could go, eagerly accepted the offer—completely unaware of the hellish ordeal awaiting him.
Training with Fenrir was brutal. Dawn runs that stretched miles across uneven terrain, sparring sessions that left him bruised and aching, and ditation exercises designed to test his focus under imnse pressure. Mistakes weren't tolerated; stumble once, and he'd find himself doubling the workload. Fenrir pushed him beyond limits he didn't know he had.
In stark contrast, Sköll's thods were... relaxing. They'd sit beneath the trees or by the riverside, discussing Ka theory in calm tones. Sotis, Sköll would throw out vague instructions like, "Figure it out," before promptly lying down to nap. His training focused more on ntal clarity and understanding rather than sheer endurance. At first, Velren thought it was a joke—but over ti, he realized how the calmness sharpened his instincts.
Despite the polar opposite approaches, the balance between them worked. Thanks to those two, at just ten years old, Velren had not only strengthened his body but also deepened his understanding of his Ka—and more importantly, his Vital Crest.
His gaze drifted toward Gramps walking ahead. For his case, he had never trained Velren even once in his entire life. He Figured that the old man just couldn't be bothered, too busy with his booze and all.
But that excuse no longer sat right with him.
For as long as he could rember, Gramps had never shown him his Vital Crest. Sure, the old man ditated every night, pulsing his Ka faintly around him—but his actual magic? Never. Even when Velren pressed Fenrir and Sköll for answers, the wolves gave the sa frustratingly vague response, telling him that the Grandmaster had his reasons.
But what were those reasons?
He couldn't shake the feeling that what awaited them at the capital was sothing far more important than the either of them had let on.
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