Just beyond the borders of the Eastern Region, Tempest Kingdom, lay Zone 15. This zone comprised two cities—Llis and Ilios—both known for their breathtaking scenery and charm. Ilios was home to the prestigious Crimson Knight Academy and the Crimson Mage Academy. Meanwhile, in the heart of Llis stood the Solara Palace, the seat of the royal family. The city also housed two prominent noble families, while the rest of its population consisted mostly of middle- and lower-class nobles.
The two primary noble houses in Llis were the Hawthorne and Blazon families. Though bitter rivals, they shared one crucial role: both served as royal constables to the Solara Kingdom. Yet, among the two, the Hawthornes stood above. Honored for generations of unwavering loyalty and sacrifice, they held the esteemed position as the most trusted noble family in the entire Kingdom of Solara.
In Llis's western district stood the grand residence of House Hawthorne.
The Hawthorne residence was a marvel of nobility and power, its presence casting a regal shadow across the western district of Llis. Encased within high, obsidian-black walls etched with silver runes, the estate stretched over several acres of meticulously manicured gardens, ornamental trees, and cobblestone paths that gleamed beneath the daylight. Twin towers flanked the main hall, their spires reaching into the sky. Intricate stained-glass windows depicted scenes of valor—generations of Hawthornes in battle, defending the realm with blade and flame.
The central mansion was built in a fusion of stone and darkwood, accented by silver-lined balconies and sharp-angled rooftops. At its entrance, two lion-shaped gargoyles stood guard—enchanted with silent watchfulness, their eyes faintly glowing crimson. Banners bearing the Hawthorne sigil—a silver phoenix rising from blue flames—hung proudly on either side of the grand staircase leading into the heart of the estate. Servants moved with silent precision, and the air carried the scent of lavender from the courtyard, masking the subtle hum of myst that pulsed through the land.
Behind the estate, separated by a gate of enchanted steel and a long stone walkway, lay the training grounds. The area stretched wide, built upon layered myststone that absorbed excess magical output. Marble statues lined the edges, each one a former champion of the Hawthorne line, and at the center, magical dummies floated and shifted restlessly, awaiting combat.
There, shirtless and drenched in sweat, stood Asher.
His white hair was damp, clinging to his face, while his glowing blue eyes locked with focus onto his targets. A stream of brilliant blue fire erupted from his outstretched palm, spiraling like a serpent before crashing into a dummy with explosive force, reducing it to smoldering fragments. Another darted toward him from behind, but Asher twisted smoothly, conjuring a flame-tipped spear in one hand and hurling it mid-spin. The weapon pierced straight through the dummy's core, bursting into radiant blue embers.
Breathing heavy, chest heaving, Asher cracked his neck and smirked.
"Too slow," he muttered, summoning another wave of dummies with a snap of his fingers.
Asher had returned home two days ago for his break from the academy. His initial plan was simple—rest on the day he arrived, then dive straight into personal training the following morning. But that plan never stood a chance against Afina Hawthorne, his mother. She had insisted—no, commanded—that he take a full week off before even thinking about training. Asher didn't agree in the slightest, but Afina wasn't the type to back down easily. After hours of mother and son back-and-forth, Asher managed to bargain her down to a single day of rest.
This morning, before the first light touched the sky, he was already in motion. Now, three hours past sunrise, he was still at it, relentless and driven. Between heavy breaths and fire-laced slashes, he muttered under his breath—something about how if he slacked off for even a second, Liam would surpass him again. And Asher wasn't going to let that happen. Not again.
He pushed through another round with the magical dummies for about ten more minutes before stopping—not because he was tired, but because he had decimated the training dummies for the thirtieth time that morning.
"These damn things are worthless," he muttered, glaring down at his blade. "There's no way I'll improve messing around with these hollow bags."
He let out a sharp breath, eyes narrowing with frustration. "Tch. Should've stayed at the academy… just like that weakling. Bet he's out there right now, going through some hellish training. And here I am, wasting time."
He groaned, running a hand through his damp hair as he readied himself for yet another round—until a voice cut through the air.
"Young master, the lord of the mansion has summoned you," came a calm, feminine voice.
Asher glanced sideways. A maid stood there, dressed in the formal uniform of the Hawthorne estate, bowing respectfully.
"Is it urgent?" he asked, his voice carrying the edge of annoyance.
"Young master," she said, lifting her gaze to meet his. "Everything involving your father is considered urgent."
Asher sighed and tossed his sword aside, walking over to where his shirt lay crumpled on the ground. "Of course it is. Everything's always urgent with that man."
As he pulled the shirt over his head, he added, "And Lydia, seriously, cut it with the 'young master' nonsense. It's weird."
"Understood… Asher," she replied softly, watching as he walked off the training grounds without another word.
Asher walked across the courtyard, his mind still seething with frustration from his training session. The sun was high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the perfectly manicured grounds of the Hawthorne estate. His footsteps echoed as he approached the large doors of the mansion, which swung open at his approach with a soft creak. He stepped inside, his mind already turning to the inevitable conversation with his father, Lord Aleric Hawthorne.
The mansion's interior was just as grand as the outside, filled with dark wood paneling and intricate tapestries depicting centuries of Hawthorne history. Asher barely spared them a glance, his thoughts consumed by his desire to get back to training. He had no interest in whatever "urgent" matter his father had summoned him for, but he had no choice but to comply.
The hallway stretched long, leading to Lord Aleric's study. Asher pushed open the door without knocking, entering with his usual lack of formality. Inside, Lord Aleric sat behind a grand mahogany desk, his sharp features set in a permanent scowl. His dark silver hair framed his face like a crown. His blue eyes—identical to Asher's—held a cold, calculating glint.
"Ah, Asher," Lord Aleric's voice was low and authoritative. "I trust you're enjoying your break?"
Asher barely suppressed a grimace, walking across the room to stand at attention. "It's been… enlightening."
Aleric raised an eyebrow but didn't press further on his son's sarcasm. "Enough with the pleasantries. There's a matter I need to discuss with you."
Asher sighed inwardly but held his tongue. "I'm all ears, sir."
Aleric's gaze hardened. "According to my sources, you and a certain boy have been chosen by the prodigal son of the Solara Kingdom."
Asher's brow furrowed in confusion. "Prodigal son? You mean Sir Galen?"
Aleric leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Yes, I'm talking about Galen Magna."
"I thought I made it very clear that associating with him was not an option for you. Even if he is the strongest knight of his generation and sees potential in you, a prodigal son is still a prodigal son."
Asher met his father's gaze with calm eyes, though his expression betrayed his anger. He wanted to speak, but he knew better than to interrupt. Speaking without permission was something his father disliked, and Asher wasn't in the mood to hear his father rant about these things.
"Your association with him, whether he's still your instructor or not, has stained the Hawthorne name. Because of your incompetence, your mother and I—hell, we all—will have to deal with the taunts from those Blazon brats," Aleric said, his eyes still fixed on Asher.
"You may speak now, but choose your words wisely."
Asher clenched his fists, frustration bubbling up. "By 'we,' you mean you, right?"
Lord Aleric's expression darkened, the atmosphere thickened.
"I was chosen by the man who disowned his family for reasons known only to him and his kin. So what? Now I'm a disgrace to my own family? I don't think that's how you view it, because all you care about is yourself," Asher's voice was low but clear with anger.
"You don't care about Mom, Nila, or even me. You only care about yourself and your pathetic politics. I get exactly what you want, Father, and honestly, I'm not sure I'm willing to comply this time. So, if you plan on kicking me out of your house, go ahead."
"You will do as I say, Asher. This is for the family. You've done something that can still be fixed. Don't think of it like Galen's situation; it won't lead you anywhere. To live in this family, sacrifices must be made, and disassociating yourself from a prodigal son is one of them."
The weight of his father's words pressed down on Asher, making his blood boil with a mixture of anger and resentment. His father's expectations were always suffocating, always demanding more, never satisfied.
"Today, I'm being generous, so I'll overlook your little outburst. However, you have three days to give me an answer."
"Now, you may excuse yourself."