Blue Glintstone 1
The howl of the albinauric jolted him awake. The room was still dark, but faint glimmers danced on the chrome surfaces around him. Groaning, the youth turned his head toward the screaming albinauric. The creature was a pitiful sight—withered, a mere head with stunted limbs perched miserably on his nightstand. He really should consider getting a real alarm clock; at least those weren’t as grotesque.
“Waahhh! Waahhhh!”
“Enough.” His voice was raspy as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Instantly, the creature fell silent, its baleful face sinking back into quiet suffering. Sometimes, he thought about putting it out of its misery, but that would be a waste of quid.
Reluctantly, he rose, his body still heavy with sleep. He leaned against the side of his bed, taking deep, measured breaths. His room was opulent, cluttered with knick-knacks, paintings, useless bookshelves, and mirrors. He couldn’t help but think about six years ago, when he was in that dusty room—never imagined he’d own so many expensive things, or anything at all.
Hurriedly, he got up to shower, the silver creatures pelting him with warm water. It had taken some getting used to, just as it probably did for the freshmen. By the time he was dressed, the sun was just peeking over the horizon. He still had enough time for a smoke, blowing the fumes out the window. He’d gotten hooked on the stuff a few years back and now had to smuggle it in.
He could imagine Sir berating him for this. "If you must do. At least have the decency to do it where no one can see."
He calmly exhaled, watching the view before him. The academy rose above the lake, the mist giving it the appearance of being suspended in the clouds. It was always foggy—the mornings, the afternoons, no matter the time of day. Most of his peers said it was because they were so high up, but he’d seen the lands above them, and the fog never reached that high. He blamed the swamp, and the things lurking underneath. He shudders at the memories, he would never eat lobster again.
Those are crayfish. Her voice pops up.
“Shut up.” He says that to no one.
After a few minutes he looks at the clock, the boy groans, crushing the bud, flicking it to the ground below. Josephus adjusts his tie, picked up his sword and walks out the door.
It was a calm morning in Seluvis Rise, from what Sir said, it was named after a scumbag. Or was the scumbag named after it? He doesn’t know, and he certainly doesn’t care. That’s more Strom or Karin’s thing, academics was never his strong suit.
Seluvis Rise was an immense tower, segmented into levels with a grand spiral staircase at its core. The staircase was mostly for show—no one used it unless they wanted to climb a million steps. Most people opted for the floating seals at the entrance, which acted as a makeshift elevator. A bit lazy, in his opinion, but at least it was handicap accessible. And it saved him from the hassle of climbing—or worse, falling.
Josephus looked up, watching as students walked on what appeared to be the ceiling—or was it the floor? The building itself was split between two dimensions, one right side up and the other upside down. The architect claimed it maximized space, which explained why the top and ground floors were structured identically. The main doors on both ends connect to the same place, it confused him then and it does now. Even more so that there were technically two towers, both the girls and boys dorms, occupying the same space at the same time. Karin said the math involved would fill three whole text books, the heavy kind.
He quickly touched the warp seal, teleporting to the ground floor where the first years lived. As prefect, it was his duty to escort them until they could manage on their own. With a snap of his fingers, the serf albinauric came scurrying over, immediately handing him a clipboard with the names of all his charges.
One by one, the boys filed out of their rooms and into the hall. He glanced up, noticing the other prefect doing the same on the opposite side. After waiting a few moments, he started knocking on doors, making sure no one was left behind.
Because of all the extra space, each student had their own room, and the rooms only got bigger with each passing year as they moved up floor by floor. These kids were lucky; when he was a first year, the tower wasn’t even built—they had to sleep in tents. Those were dark times.
“Justin Finch-Fletchley? Gareth Ackerly. Anthony Goldstein.” he began, calling out names. Most of the kids looked nervous, their eyes drifting upwards to the students walking on the ceiling.
“Dudley Dursley?” he called out, but there was no response. Josephus glanced around. “Has anyone seen Dursley?”
“You mean the fat kid?” one of the boys replied.
“I think?”
“Bet he’s still crying in his room,” another boy, wearing a cap, shrugged.
Josephus rolled his eyes. It was going to be one of those days, wasn’t it? Without hesitation, he marched to Dursley’s room and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, he knocked harder.
“Dursley, wake up. It’s seven; you’re going to be late for breakfast.”
Still no response. Sighing, he activated his glintstone key and unlocked the door. The room was a mess, which was odd considering they’d just arrived yesterday. Josephus navigated through the clutter and yanked open the curtains, startling the boy awake. The kid was chubby, with dirty blond hair, still in his pajamas. Josephus had expected some semblance of discipline, but then again, he had been drilled by Sir most of his life, so maybe he was completely detached from the idea of being a slob. Josephus couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t wake up early or make his bed first thing in the morning.
“You're late. Get dressed.”
"Wha-ah?" The boy yawned. At first glance, Josephus could only describe him as slimy. His breath was awful, and his teeth were almost yellow. Sweat glistened on his forehead, suggesting he’d been sweating in his sleep. He moved slowly, rolling off the bed and landing with all the grace of a stone hitting water.
Josephus took in the state of the room: clothes were strewn everywhere, only half of them put away in drawers. The closet stood open and empty, and the only item on the nightstand was a picture frame. On closer inspection, it appeared to be a family photo—an old one, considering the boy looked much younger in it.
Attached to his family, doesn’t take care of himself... Spoiled? No, most boys his age are like that. Yet, there’s something about him... He does hold considerable weight. And given the attitudes of the other boys, was he bullied? Maybe I’m overthinking this.
His acute awareness was the reason Josephus had come so far despite his poor academics. It was both a blessing and a curse—he just couldn’t leave well enough alone, even when his instincts told him not to.
“Why’d you wake me so early?” the boy whined.
“It’s seven a.m.”
“That’s too early. My mum never wakes me up this early,” the boy said, his tone turning fussy.
“I’m not your mum.” Josephus noticed the boy instinctively flinch at that. His mood seemed to sour, his expression darkening. A theory began to form in Josephus’s mind, but he needed more information.
“Get changed, or we’re leaving you behind,” Josephus said, his tone harsher, just as intended.
The boy’s lips quivered.
“You have ten minutes,” Josephus added before stepping out. He took one last glance before closing the door, hearing a sob just before the door clicked shut.
He was looking at the photo. So, it’s either homesickness or... Given the academy’s statistics, the boy was an orphan. With his spoiled attitude and weight, it must have been recent—maybe last year?
Most of the students in the academy were wards of the state. Josephus himself had been homeless before arriving. As he climbed the ranks, gaining access to more secrets and trust, he’d begun to suspect that not everything was accidental. But even if that was true, it’s too late to back out now.
There was an analogy that fit him perfectly: he couldn’t see the forest for the trees. He clicked his tongue in frustration.
It’s hopeless.
Josephus pulls out the clipboard to continue the roll call.
“Doran Allant.”
“The fifth!” The boy shouts from the back.
Exhausting. That’s what it was. He’d battled multiple undead at once, slain a gargoyle, and dealt with those dreadful snails. Yet, a bunch of loud, obnoxious schoolchildren was what truly broke him. Scratch that—Sir’s punishment track was worse. She’d made him run two laps around the entire swamp, a grueling five-day ordeal. When he returned, his sword was shattered, his armor caked in muck, and he was starving and exhausted. She told him it should have taken two, then made him do it all over again.
He marched to the training ground within the courtyard of Carian Manor. Once home to the Carian royals, the manor had seen better days. He remembered it from his first year: overgrown, dilapidated, with barely standing walls, broken arches, scorch marks, and remnants of siege engines. Now, it was less ruined, having been converted into a training site for future knights and enforcers.
The sun was high in the sky as Josephus scanned the courtyard, finally spotting the massive shoulders of Strom. The boy was large—supposedly the same age as Josephus—but he towered over him, with arms as wide as Josephus's torso. Strom let out a hearty laugh next to a smaller figure, probably Karin.
Josephus took a deep breath, adjusted his armor, and began to move forward cautiously. He hoped he could bluff his way through being late again. If Karin found out, she’d definitely give him an earful.
He tried to be stealthy, keeping close to the walls, hoping his gray armor would blend in with the bricks. It seemed to be working. If he could just make it to the weapons room, he could pretend he’d been there the whole time.
It was Strom who shattered his illusion of stealth. His face snapped toward Josephus like a bloodhound catching a scent. Sometimes, Josephus was convinced he really was one.
“Joe!” Strom waved, his armor gleaming in the sunlight. Karin turned as well, her hands on her hips.
So close…
“You're late,” she hissed, and Josephus could practically feel her eyes narrowing beneath her helmet.
“I had a good reason,” he replied, trying to sound confident.
Her posture shifted to that familiar stance: ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed.’ Josephus cursed his ability to read body language so well. Karin was like the superego to his id, the ever-present voice telling him he was wrong or doing it wrong. Except she was real, and she could easily beat him to the ground.
“I... was helping a jar boy?” he offered, trying to come up with an excuse.
In reality, he’d taken a "small" power nap—if you could call an hour and fifty minutes small. Strom might think so, but Strom was a different breed altogether. Josephus knew he shouldn’t have spent most of the night reading low-tier romance novels. It wasn’t worth it, but Karin didn’t need to know that.
“You're a terrible liar, fish-eyes,” she shot back, using his old childhood nickname. She was the only person he knew before the academy, and she loved to remind him of that—to his great annoyance.
“Don’t. Tell. Sir. You owe me one,” he warned, pointing at Karin. The girl shrugged.
“That’s fine,” she said, and for a moment, Josephus was relieved—until she added, “Because she already knows.” His hopes dropped instantly.
The sound of clinking armor and heavy footsteps counted down to his doom. Sir appeared in her silver, gem-adorned armor, a long blue cape flowing behind her and a colossal greatsword strapped to her back. The glintstone on her weapon glowed an ominous blue. She looked every bit the poster child of a true knight, but beneath that knightly visage lurked a demon from the depths of hell. Josephus was in for it now, and she knew it—one of the reasons she’d chosen him.
“My darling squires,” she greeted calmly. But a calm Sir was a dangerous Sir. Despite Josephus’s stoic expression, he was panicking inside.
“Sir!” Strom was the first to salute, his fist to his heart, bowing his head.
“Sir,” Karin followed quickly.
“S-Sir!” Josephus saluted as well, perhaps too quickly.
“Three seconds late. Fifty phantoms for each of you. If one so much as scratches you, you’ll start from the beginning.” Though they tried to hide it, all the squires deflated, except for Strom, who thrived on battle.
“Honestly, if Sir Moongrum were here, he’d have flogged you for insubordination,” she said, patting her helmet. “I’m going soft.”
Josephus shuddered, dreading what came next. Only the best became knights of Caria. In the past, they were the strongest in Liurnia, the most respected, the most loyal, and the most feared. A single knight could slay thousands without breaking a sweat. Their training was brutal and relentless, but the results were worth it—even if most didn’t survive. Now, the order numbered in the single digits, their strength waning and in need of new blood. But none ever met their rigorous standards, and to lower them would be to disgrace the order and endanger the queen. Out of all the cadets in their year, ten had been chosen, but only these three remained.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Get to it,” she commanded, and the squires sprang into action. Josephus was the fastest, hoping that command would make her forget his lateness. As always, his hopes were dashed when she patted his shoulders. He hadn’t even heard her approach.
“Not you, my inquisitive squire. Don’t think I’ve forgotten your tardiness,” she said, her voice serene but carrying an edge of anger. “I have a more daunting task for you.”
Josephus braced himself. What could it be this time? Misbegotten? Man-serpents? Trolls? Oh, please not the snails! Those annoying, invisible–
“Strom,” she said.
Josephus’s hopes sank. I’ll take the snails!
“Yes, Sir!” Strom responded with enthusiasm.
“Your senior requires a spar. I think his swordsmanship is lacking. Be sure to give him pointers.” Her tone was delightfully malicious.
Strom straightened up with glee, completely oblivious to the underlying malice. Josephus doubted he even noticed the subtext.
“Gladly, Sir!” Strom saluted.
It’s hopeless.
It took half a minute to prepare for the spar, and Josephus knew that if it had taken any longer, Sir would have made them fight lions. He watched Strom, who held two great curved swords with ease. Only Strom could wield such massive weapons and wear full plate armor without feeling encumbered. While Strom’s raw strength was intimidating, it wasn’t what worried Josephus.
Josephus unsheathed his single straight sword, which looked like a toothpick compared to Strom’s. Sir stood between them, acting as the referee, while Karin leaned against the wall, no doubt cheering for his humiliating defeat.
“And begin,” Sir commanded, and the wind picked up.
Of all the squires, Josephus feared Strom the most, not for his strength but for his stupid speed. Immediately, Strom closed the distance, his body enveloped in a gust of wind, propelling him towards Josephus like a human projectile. Josephus rolled out of the way, narrowly avoiding Strom’s powerful strike that smashed into the ground.
Josephus went for the punishment, slashed Strom’s back with his sword. Strom howled in delight and spun around, wielding his long curved swords with fluidity. Josephus ducked, backed away, and dodged to the left as Strom’s blades sailed past him. He took the opportunity to poke at Strom before rolling backwards to safety.
They moved in a complex dance: Strom would overextend, Josephus would strike; Strom would slash, and Josephus would roll. Despite Strom’s overwhelming speed and strength, he was losing. The reason was intricate—a lesson Josephus had learned the hard way. He knew that overpowering an opponent was not his strength; instead, reading their movements and striking the right moment was where he excelled. And he knew Strom’s moves like the back of his hand. Besides, the rolling technique granted him a temporary invincibility, that would have sounded crazy if someone had told him six years ago.
“You’ve gotten stronger!” Strom bellowed.
“Nope,” Josephus replied, delivering a strike that knocked Strom’s helmet off, revealing his face. Despite Strom’s imposing size, his features were surprisingly baby-faced, with rosy cheeks and dull gray eyes. His spiky gray hair and similarly gray skin spoke to his Draconian heritage—a storm-man from Nov Farum. His techniques were a dead give away.
“Then I guess I’ll kick it up a notch.” Strom swirled his swords, wind gathering around his hands like miniature tornadoes.
Josephus's eyes widened. I’ve never seen this move before. I need to end this quickly!
He readied his stance, feeling the ash of war stir memories within him. Sir was grinning, and Karin had stopped leaning, her focus intense. Josephus leaped into action.
“He’s got hyper-armor!” Karin yelled, but it was too late.
Strom’s blades crashed into Josephus, but the attack didn’t stop him. Josephus spun in midair, slamming his sword down on Strom. The force of the blow broke Strom’s stance, sending him to his knees. Josephus seized the moment, driving his sword into Strom's stomach. The other boy’s eyes widened in shock as the blade pierced him. Blood sprayed as Josephus withdrew his sword, and Strom collapsed onto the ground.
The world was silent as Josephus took deep breaths, watching Strom bleed out.
Sir clapped her hands. “Excellent!” She strode forward, casually stepping through the blood pooling around Strom. Karin staggered, her hand covering her mouth as she locked eyes on Strom’s motionless body.
“I see you’ve kept your skills sharp. But you made one fatal mistake.” Josephus couldn’t meet her gaze as the knight knelt beside him, her voice cold in his ear. “When you knocked off his helmet. A slight deviation downward and you would have slit his throat.”
Josephus didn’t respond.
“You know this, don’t you?”
“Y-yes,” he forced out.
“Remember, the world won’t be as merciful.” She placed a flask in his hand before walking away. “Sixty for all of you,” she added cheerfully. The moment her footsteps faded, Josephus rushed to Strom’s side. Using all his strength, he flipped the body over, his hands shaking as blood stained everything. Without hesitation, he pried Strom’s mouth open and forced the flask‘s contents down his throat.
“Please. Please. Please. Please—” Josephus cradled Strom’s body, his desperate prayers spilling out. Karin approached slowly, silent and somber. Blood smeared on Josephus’s armor; the scent of copper filled his nostrils.
“Please. Please—” Strom coughed, color slowly returning to his face. Relief flooded Josephus’s limbs.
“Strom!” Karin dropped to her knees and hugged the boy tightly.
“Agh... Did I win?” Strom muttered deliriously.
“You idiot,” she sobbed, holding him tighter.
While they spoke, Josephus rose and walked toward the restroom, not bothering to look back. He fumbled with his helmet, desperate to get it off as quickly as possible. The stench of blood, the sight of red, the echoes of screams—they clung to him. As soon as the helmet was loose, he threw it aside and ran to the sink, splashing water on his face, trying to wash away the smell, the blood. His face was drenched in sweat, his body trembling uncontrollably. His black hair clung to his skin, heat radiating from his face. His dead fish eyes, once mocked when he was a child, were as wide as ever. Dark lines marred the skin under his eyes, standing out starkly against his pale complexion.
He gripped the sink until it cracked under the pressure.
It’s all worth it, it has to be… It has to be… I don’t have a choice.
He almost believed that. He practiced his breathing until he calmed down, the sound of running water the only thing grounding him. Slowly, he looked back at the mirror, not recognizing the person staring back at him.
It’s hopeless.
“I need a smoke.”
Flask of Red Humors
A crystallized organ shaped like a bottle, easily mistaken for a flask by the unaware—a lie that’s easier to swallow. But the observant sees beating veins, and the keenest can glimpse the living heart.
Created by the Solomous, ripped from the core of a silver giant. Given to Caria’s most loyal servants; after all, loyalty should be rewarded. Yet veterans find it lacking compared to the original.
In ages past, flasks were vital to any aspiring lord, a theme spanning worlds. But a new age rendered them inert, leading to attempts to restore their lost power; with limiting success.