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My life took a radical turn.
I thought I'd return to the usual routine—locked all day in that familiar room. But that didn't happen. Suddenly, more often than I expected, I found myself outside the castle, watching the n-at-arms train.
It wasn't just a stroll anymore. It beca part of a new routine.
They'd seat on a blanket or a small bench, always under the watch of a servant or guard, and from there I could see the whole training field. Swords, shields, shouted commands, sweat, punishnts—it was repetitive, but informative.
I quickly noticed that the number of n had decreased significantly. Nothing like that first ti my father brought personally. The field felt emptier, the shouts fewer, duels more spaced out.
And soon I learned why.
Father had disappeared.
He left days ago. No goodbye. No explanation. He just went—apparently to deal with the problem of the beastn that he'd discussed with Rudolf that day. He took many fighters from the fortress with him. Probably to cleanse the forests, patrol villages, or hunt those beasts nacing the peasants.
With him went the horses, squires, and banners.
Silence descended on the fortress.
But not for long.
This apparent freedom ended soon enough, because the one who would be my teacher finally arrived—the Sigmar priest from the village temple.
He didn't fit my expectations of a religious man. I'd pictured long robes, amulets, solemn words, white beard. Yes, he wore a robe and bore the twin-tailed cot symbol… but he also wore chainmail, hardened leather armor, and had a warhamr at his belt.
I suppose for soone who worships a warrior god, that presentation made more sense than I'd admit.
The priest took my hand—firm, but gentle—and with two guards guiding , he made walk. He was taking on my own toward the village along a long beaten dirt road descending from the castle.
For the first ti, I saw the village up close.
And, well… I can't say I was surprised.
Most of the buildings were rough-cut wood, with no real windows—just holes likely patched with cloth or boards in winter to hold in the little warmth they had. The place slled of smoke, mud, and bodies working beyond what a human body should endure.
Only a handful of buildings had stone at their base or corners—slightly sturdier houses, probably belonging to wealthier artisans or a local official. I couldn't be sure, but you could tell who lived above the rest.
We passed what appeared to be a carpenter's workshop. Adults were busy cutting and assembling wood while several children—not much older than —carried boards, searched for nails, or helped hold up structures. Clearly, they weren't "learning" in a modern sense—they were working.
A few steps later, I spotted a blacksmith's forge. The hamr's ring against anvil never stopped. Constant, rhythmic, deafening, and the heat was brutal even from several ters away. As we passed, I saw a smith, arms blackened by soot and sweat, barking orders while more children hauled coal, tal, and rough iron pieces—practice materials, presumably.
Finally, I noticed the only stone building in the village, apart from the fortress.
The Sigmar chapel.
And unlike everything around it, no expense had been spared here. Well-cut bricks with firm mortar. Perfectly laid tiles with none loose. Arches with stained-glass windows—simple but catching daylight beautifully.
It contrasted almost absurdly with the rest of the village: splintering wooden hos, thatched roofs, poorly nailed boards. It was like they'd ripped out a piece of city and planted it in the mud.
The chapel stood in the center of the village, and directly in front was what really caught the eye:
A statue of Sigmar.
The figure was imposing—light-gray stone, taller than any house in the village. Depicted in classic form: muscular, heavily bearded, brow furrowed in serene wrath.
He wore chainmail with plate tassets, a cape that looked wind-blown despite being carved in stone. But what drew the eye was the warhamr he held in both hands—Ghal Maraz. Not raised in attack, but planted firmly on the ground, like judgnt incarnate, waiting for judgnt to fall.
The priest continued guiding by the hand until we finally entered the chapel.
As expected, the interior was fully decorated in homage to his god. Banners bearing the twin-tailed cot hung from pillars, stained glass depicted scenes of battle and miracles, and behind the altar stood another statue of the god—smaller, but equally stern.
Other children were already there—likely the sons of knights and minor officers under my father's command. Only those who, by blood or position, could earn the "privilege" of being educated by a Sigmarite priest.
Privilege—that is, to listen to Imperial theology burned into your soul, defining what you must be and what you can never question.
And with that, the sermon began.
The priest stepped up to the small stone pulpit. Despite his age, his voice was strong, clear, hardened by years of battle and preaching. He looked at us each with intensity before speaking:
"Children of the Empire… children of Sigmar… listen well to what your god expects of you."
He paused, inhaled, and spoke as though each word was a commandnt:
"Be strong! For the weak have no place in this world. The weak die—and with them, the Empire perishes.
Be brave! For fear is no excuse for inaction. Cowardice is the crack through which corruption enters.
Be loyal! Not only to your father and your land, but to Sigmar who created this civilization. Betrayal is the seed of Chaos.
And destroy evil wherever you find it! Without doubt, without remorse, without wavering in blade or judgnt. For evil does not reason. Evil does not negotiate. Evil must be crushed, annihilated, eradicated."
It went on like that for what felt like an eternity. Words and more words about what Sigmar expected from us: strength, discipline, courage, faith, devotion, purity, obedience, justice, fire, death.
All the other children stared fixedly at the priest, as if every word was a revelation. Maybe so understood. Maybe others were too afraid to look away. I simply complied. I nodded. I feigned interest. Inside, I wanted to die from how damn predictable and boring it all was. It felt like reading military propaganda mixed with a poorly edited dieval sermon—dressed up in dramatic, repetitive tones that probably worked on half-literate peasants or proud nobles who dared not ask questions.
Finally, with a loud fist pounding on the stone pulpit, the priest ended the sermon. The echo rolled through the chapel like a dry thunderclap, marking the end of the punishnt.
But just when things seed over...
"Here begins your first lesson, children of the Empire. Here—in this place, under the watchful gaze of the god Sigmar—you will witness the story of his most faithful son… Magnus the Pious."
With that, he took a heavy leather-bound book—well-worn at the edges—and placed it on a low table before us.
"It will be my duty to teach you to read the story of this sacred man."
To my genuine surprise, the priest actually started teaching us to read.
It wasn't elaborate. He used the basics: letters, syllables, connectors. We repeated syllables, words, simple phrases—the minimal literacy needed for an Imperial child to read Sigmarite writings without committing accidental heresy.
The catch was simple: if you didn't get it right on the first try, tough luck. This priest had no interest in repeating himself. He didn't shout at first—it ca later—but he made it clear that anyone who didn't learn quickly would be left behind. And if you failed to read correctly in front of the group, he'd take you through a verbal hell until you could pronounce every word, every title, every sacred na perfectly.
The older children did okay—reading slowly, stumbling over phrases but figuring out the text with effort. The younger ones—around two to four years old, barely even a full year old in my case—couldn't even manage a complete sentence. They babbled, stuttered, so couldn't identify letters: a complete ss.
When it was my turn, I expected the sa—so public humiliation like the others. But not at all. He was gentler with . Perhaps because of my age. Perhaps because he expected nothing. He simply pointed to a passage and asked to say the na "Magnus" out loud.
Normally, I'd have done just that. Comply. Don't stand out. But I had a father to impress. A brother who'd already failed. And a future I'd rather be lord of the castle than the spare.
So I chose to do more.
I took a breath, forced my still-developing throat, and read straight from the text:
"I can see in your eyes that you fear this enemy. I can see in your eyes that you wonder how we can fight such terrible monsters. n of the Empire, I have the answer: We fight them with our steel, we fight them with our courage, but above all we fight them with our faith in Sigmar!"
My phrasing wasn't perfect. A few words stumbled. I struggled with the rhythm. But I didn't stop.
When I finished, I looked at the priest. He looked genuinely pleased. He didn't say anything—just nodded once and moved on.
After that, the children were retrieved one by one by their servant . The knight's children accompanied back, led by the priest. As we climbed the slope back toward the tower, I took the chance to examine the fortress from outside.
It wasn't as large as I imagined from within—but its height and position dominated the village. The stone was gray. The walls bore signs of recent repairs, suggesting not-so-distant conflicts. On the battlents, a few guards strolled listlessly, likely bored by the relative peace.
From then on, visits to the Sigmar chapel beca a daily routine.
Every day for several hours, the priest returned to teach letters, connectors, simple phrases—and always with the book of Magnus the Pious. We read it over and over, each aloud, while the priest corrected or scolded as needed.
It wasn't hard for .
Having mastered French, English, Ukrainian, and Russian in my previous life, this dialectal variation of German—Reikspiel—posed no barrier. It felt familiar, even comfortable. Within weeks, I was reading fluently.
Occasionally, the priest let stay longer than the others. He'd sit alone with the book and step away to write or clean the altar. In his way, I think he believed he was doing a favor… or he saw as an exceptionally devoted child. He didn't realize that for , this was a thousand tis more interesting than watching sweaty n swing sticks all day.
In ti, the priest began teaching to write. But there was a problem: paper was expensive and scarce. He couldn't give parchnt just for to ruin with crude scribbles. So he used monts when he himself had to write—likely letters for nobles, the castle, or the religious order—and let watch closely. He pointed out the strokes, the symbols, how to hold the pen, how to dip it, how not to drip ink.
I figured all of this would serve well in the future.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let know.
Leave a comnt; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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