Siro took Grathas’ suggestions regarding vigilance to heart. He checked the surrounding forest with a new sort of attentiveness. He hoped that his vigilance would last after the adrenaline had run its course.

“Johansen…” Siro could not help but wonder how such an arrogant and not especially obedient boy of his young age was already an esteemed Royal Ranger. “Johansen, you and your money…”

Siro had not been born into money. Sometimes rich people like Stora would make him feel jealous. However Siel had told him that jealousy was a weak emotion. Sometimes it was just hard to force away the feelings.

Siro had been born into a decently well-known grain farming family in a small village. Some of the village’s grain sometimes actually went to the king himself, so, truth be told Siro had not been born into complete poverty. He had never wanted for food during a good harvest and his family had been very close and loving. Siro had been the only surviving child of two caring parents. Young Siro had also become very close to the town guard over the years. The guard was like an older brother to him. He even trained Siro informally in basic combat starting at a very young age. Siro had been quite happy living there. It still hurt a little bit when he thought about the small village and its quaint population.

Siro had been nine years old when the plague had hit his village. The disease had come quickly. No one was sure how the plague had made it all the way out to the isolated village but in a matter of days most of the people were dead. There was not even any time to flee; the disease debilitated its victims almost immediately. Siro, however, had remained miraculously unaffected. He had watched desperately while his friends, family and master succumbed to the illness.

The memories had faded, for the most part, but he still remembered holding his agonized mother until she passed away. Siro could remember his father forcing out the words: “be someone, my boy.” And then he was all alone. Siro remembered little else from the ensuing days of solitude. He remembered being confused, hungry and very sad.

Siro’s famous luck, however, was left unharmed and a miracle came to him in the form of a visiting knight. The old knight, out of sympathy or his sense of duty, rescued Siro and took him far away from the dead village. The knight took the boy to the combat training camp to the south.

Siro trained at the camp for three years. He excelled tremendously and exceeded most of the training in many areas. Some said that Siro’s farming background had humbled him and made him stronger. Others theorized that his tragic life had given him inhuman determination. Siro simply felt that if he worked hard enough he could excel and be someone as his father had requested. And excel he did, when he was twelve he was elected to be the Royal trainee for the area.

The Royal Trainees are the young warriors who are deemed worthy of being trained to become a Royal Ranger, a Royal Guard, a Royal War General or one of the esteemed Royal Knights depending on the child’s aptitude and combat style. Siro was honored to receive this position and was even further honored when the advisers decided that he was worthy of attempting entry into Royal Knight training. The night before he was to travel to the Proving Grounds Siro took a moment to go into the woods and set up a small shrine to his parents and to his old master. He stayed there for a very long time, promising their spirits that he would do his very best.

The Proving Grounds was a clearing deep in an aspen forest at the base of the mountain range far west of castle Orien. During a break from the long journey to the location, Siro’s escort, a hardened Royal War General named Jisyn, told him the legend of the Proving Grounds.

“Long ago,” Jisyn had suddenly said. “During one of the Great Wars, a hero of the times, after many days of battle, was cornered in the middle of a field by hundreds of enemy soldiers. Many times this hero was struck by arrows and blows but he held the location and defeated many soldiers. When he was finally felled the hero let out a great cry that rose high above all other noise. ‘For the Land,’ was all that the hero shouted. The enemy soldiers were victorious, but their respect for the might of the fallen hero and for the warrior’s loyalty to his cause brought them all great confusion and sorrow. Over night their entire encampment defected to the service of their king’s enemy, giving the fallen warrior a hero’s burial where he had fallen. The soldiers raised a great stone upon the burial mound in the center of the grassy meadow. That was the turning point of that war. The stone still stands on that meadow. The location is called ‘The Proving Grounds.’”

Even through all of his nervousness Siro took Jisyn’s story to heart. Stories like that always moved Siro; he was quiet for a very long time.

“Will the test be difficult?” Siro asked the next day.

Jisyn turned to Siro and then smiled. “I have faith in you, boy. Just have faith in yourself.”

Siro tried to use Jisyn’s faith to force away his fear for the rest of the journey. They finally arrived at the meadow that day. It was sunny but a bank of clouds on the horizon threatened a storm. Storm or not, Siro felt ready.

He tried to avoid looking at the other potentials but when he did he counted nine of them standing in front of their escorts in a straight line. Siro entered the line up, Jisyn stepped behind him. So these were other Royal Trainees from far across the land? Each potential was the finest trainee of their own different area. Each potential was in that place to claim their worthiness in order to train as a Royal Knight. This thought made Siro become nervous again.

Siro tried to ease his mind by looking at the surrounding area. The field was just as Siro had imagined it would be. It was wide and was surrounded by noisy, dancing aspen trees with trunks of pure white. The grass was shin height and shone a deep green, each strand becoming lighter and darker as the soft wind moved them in and out of shadow. Several yards ahead of the trainees a pillar shaped boulder of glistening white was stuck deep into the ground, sticking upright on a slight angle. The monolith was majestic in size. Siro’s nervousness ebbed slightly as he recalled the hero and his story.

Siro was the last trainee to arrive. Soon after being properly lined up at attention, Siro saw something move on the rock. An armored figured peaked the great tombstone from the opposite side and was standing formidably atop it. The figure’s white armor glimmered like the boulder he stood upon.

“Royal Trainees!” The young man’s cry echoed across the meadow and forest as the war hero’s shout had once done. The armored man continued: “I am the Royal Knight Siel. I will test your worth! The time has come for you to prove yourself!”

The Knight leaped preposterously into the air. He spun an inverted back flip at such a height that it was difficult to see but brought gasps from several of the trainees. Sir Siel’s cape billowed behind him as he somehow landed right in front of the boy. The knight showed no signs of being affected by the massive fall. He stood at attention and stared at the boys, the wind blowing his cape to one side.

Siel had only been sixteen at the time. In some ways, his age was obvious. His face appeared younger then and he was shorter than a few of the potentials. However, in Siro’s district Sir Siel the Angel Knight was very highly spoken of. He was well known for many deeds of great bravery and strength. Siro was both honored and a bit afraid to finally meet him. Knowing of Sir Siel’s fame seeing the feat that he had just performed, Siro knew it to be folly to judge the Knight on grounds of age alone.

It seemed, however, that at least one of the trainees was not so afraid to judge. Siro heard someone on his left make some scoff at Siel’s age. Then there was a great smash so loud that it even surprised a few of the escorts. Siro took a moment to glance at the noise. Sir Siel had smashed the boy in the chest with his armored shoulder. The trainee was hit so hard that he flew backwards and leveled his large escort.

Sir Siel crisply returned to attention. He glared at the stunned and possibly injured boy. “You have just been defeated. You, therefore, have no grounds on which to question my age,” Sir Siel looked at the recovering escort and pointed to his charge. “Take this boy home, I will not train him.”

That left nine potentials. Siro heard the trainees close the gap. He took a few breaths to calm himself down. He had expected this sort of thing; he should not let it surprise him. Soon the unconscious flunky was on his way back home dangled over the back of his horse. Sir Siel walked back to his place in front of the line and stared intently at each trainee one by one. Siro stared straight ahead, forcing away all fear until he felt completely ready. Relaxing the mind was a technique that he had learned from his original master. Siro silently thanked the old guard’s spirit.

“Now, I demand silence,” Sir Siel commanded curtly. “Remain at attention and keep quiet.”

The potentials complied. Siro felt the boy to his right shudder. Sir Siel’s head snapped to the left and he stared hard at the trainee. The boy shuddered again.

“Do you fear me?” The Knight asked, approaching the boy until he was right in front of him. The young trainee nodded fearfully. “And why do you fear me?”

A moment passed and the boy forced out an answer: “You might hurt me.”

“Might?” Sir Siel laughed out loud. “I will hurt you, especially if you end up becoming my apprentice.”

The Knight shook his head turned around as if to leave but suddenly spun back around and gave a battle cry so loud that birds fled the nearby trees. Siro had not reacted, he had noticed the odd way that Siel had moved when he had turned around and had prepared himself. The other boy, however, gave a great gasp of terror and fainted onto the grass.

“Take this one home,” Sir Siel sighed. “He has seen enough action for today.” The Knight returned to his place and stood at attention. His stare was intense.

They all stood still for a very long time. Two hours passed and a potential on Siro’s right stepped out of attention for a moment.

“Take him away,” Sir Siel said at once. The boy tried to make an outraged comment but Siel interrupted him. “I demanded only complete silence and total patience. You failed to remain at attention and so I will not train you.”

Siro listened as the boy was taken away.

Another hour passed. The storm clouds were directly on top of them. A torrent of rain came without and warning. The water hit Siro hard. It was bitterly cold but Sir Siel did not seem to notice.

The rain lasted for three hours. Over the storm three more potentials were disqualified by either stepping out of line or collapsing. By the end of the tempest it was all Siro could do to remain standing at attention.

Finally, Siel broke the silence: “Parade rest!” The young knight appeared neither cold nor tired as he stepped forward. Siro had never been so relieved to take on the more relaxed position, he felt better at once. He gave a silent “thank you” to the warming sun that now showed through the clearing sky.

Sir Siel walked up and down the line. He was no longer strict about sneezes and coughs as he surveyed the four remaining, soggy Royal Trainees.

Siro was now at the far right side of the line. Sir Siel stopped at the end to Siro’s left and stared into the face of the potential Royal Knight.

“Who will you fight for?” Siel asked simply.

“The King,” the trainee’s voice sounded strong regardless of a small tremble from the cold.

“You pass,” Siel said, moving on. “Barely…”

He stopped in front of the next potential. “Who will you fight for?”

“The—the King?”

“Failure,” Sir Siel said, moving on to Siro’s neighbor. “You lack conviction and strength in your voice.”

He asked again: “Who will you fight for?”

“The people,” the boy’s voice was strong and certain. He had been considering the answer and sounded neither cold nor afraid. He held his chin high and his jaw strong. The boys brown hair was still perfectly parted, albeit very wet.

“You pass,” Sir Siel said nothing more. He moved in front of Siro. Siro looked hard into the hero’s eyes. He saw bravery, honor and a strong will to fight for a cause there. Siel’s eyes told Siro the answer.

“Who will you fight for?”

“I will fight for any who need my help,” Siro hoped that his voice sounded as sturdy as he had meant for it to.

Siel paused for a few moments, making Siro very nervous. Finally the Royal Knight nodded. “That is a fine answer.”

Siro nearly breathed a sigh of relief as Sir Siel returned to his place in front of the three remaining boys.

“How are your reflexes?” Sir Siel asked. Before Siro could even register the entire question Siel had struck the trainee on his far left with a blow that sent him flying backwards. This boy’s agile escort, however, had learned the routine. The lithe man moved out of the way, letting his charge sail past him.

Siro was glad that it had been someone else for the first time. He was not certain whether or not he could have blocked that blow. Siro now turned his full attention to the Knight.

Sir Siel took a moment, shaking his head and staring intently at the failure lying on the ground. There it was! Siro noticed a twitch in the Knight’s eyes and readied himself as Sir Siel spun a blindingly swiftly reverse backhand, lifting his knee in mid turn. There were two cracks that rang across the meadow as both Siro and the other trainee caught the respective blows.

The reverse backhand that Siro had blocked with both arms felt a lot like what he imagined a cannonball would feel like if he tried to stop it. He was absolutely stunned, so stunned that he could not yet feel the pain which would inevitably come.

He took a moment and glanced at the boy next to him. The young brunette had blocked Siel’s armored knee with both hands and a knee. Although the trainee was trying to maintain a fierce expression he had obviously had the wind knocked out of him.

Sir Siel, on the other hand, seemed completely calm and unperturbed. He stepped back down and stood in front of the two boys. Siro tried to ignore the splitting pain in his arm bones. The boy next to him was panting. Sir Siel nodded to the boys.

“Well done, both of you,” He nodded again, brushing back his hair casually. “I had assumed that that test would only leave one candidate. I am now forced to administer a final test that I have just now concocted.”

Siro felt a wave of unwelcome nervousness. The boy beside him stopped panting, steeling himself.

“Before I explain this test to you,” Sir Siel said, stepping into a fairly casual pose, hands on his hips. “Allow me to first speak at you concerning the extensive research that I have done on both of you trainees.”

Sir Siel stepped in front of the brunette potential. The young knight looked much more relaxed than he had during the rest of the tests.

“You are Stora Johansen, correct?” Siel asked. “Then you are the trainee from the Brie province. It is a very wealthy place, is it not. I once tried to get my sword sharpened in the city of Arthas but found myself entirely too lacking in funds to even purchase a loaf of edible bread,” Siel gave a short laugh that was almost mocking. “I realized that with all of the ridiculous prices that your province places onto everything it would actually be easier and less expensive to just go to another area entirely.”

Siel shifted his focus onto Siro. “Like your county, for example, Siro Rathunis. The peasant county of Slovas gives great deals. It is a pity that their poorly made merchandise tends to fall apart after it is purchased.”

Siro felt a small tinge of embarrassment, or was it indigence. Was Siel mocking his county on purpose? Were not Royal Knights supposed to be polite?

Siel turned back to the trainee called Stora Johansen: “Is it true that Brie is where the money hungry folks simply congregate?” Stora was silent, a faint red creeping into his face. “Is there gold buried there? Do Blood Diamonds fall from the heavens in Brie? Or perhaps the wealthy merely cling to one another like so many flies.” Stora clenched his jaw but did not move. Siel turned to Siro again, Siro suddenly felt very cold.

“So your parents, Siro, I hear that the plague killed them,” Siro’s eyes widened and he stared at Siel incredulously. How could he bring that up right now? “I am forced to wonder whether the plague actually made it to such a fringe village. Perhaps the people died due to the quality of your grain?” Siro was furious. However above his fury he was beginning to notice something. There was a barely noticeable twitch in Siel’s eye as he spoke to Stora and Siro that he had been lacking before. Something illusive was going on within Siel’s mind. Was this…a test?

“So, Siro?” Siel asked, clasping his gloved hands. “Did you just leave them there to rot?” Siro felt himself calming as he watched Siel’s face, beginning to understand. “Or did you sell them to make a bit of money?” That was it. This must be another test.

“No, sir,” Siro said, pleased to hear that his voice was completely level. “I made certain to leave them where they had fallen. They were both very honorable people, it seemed right for them to remain in the village that they loved.”

Sir Siel’s eyebrow shot up for a fraction of a second. He turned back to Stora, who looked enraged and highly surprised at Siro’s response. “Johansen, I have a theory…” Siel said, scratching his blonde hair absently. “Could you tell me something of your lineage, for a moment?”

Stora face relaxed. His visible irritation vanished and was replaced with pride and a small, cocky grin. “I am the Royal Trainee from the Province of Brie. I am Stora Johansen the sixth. My father, Duke Stora Johansen the fifth, is the noble Duke of the province of Brie, as was his father before him and his father before him. For eight generations my family has governed the Province of Brie, ever since my direct ancestor the great general Johan Steinacker brought order to the land.”

Stora Johansen VI gave a visible sigh of pride as he finished. Siro kind of wished that he had such pride in his lineage. Unlike Stora, Siro was not even entirely aware of who his father’s father had been.

Sir Siel was quiet for a few moments, staring pensively down at the grass. Finally: “You refer to Johan Steinacker the terrible? Do you mean to tell me that you are related to Johan Steinacker the Conqueror? You are the descendant of a megalomaniac whose crusade left thousands of innocents dead in the name of a silly religion which has probably been forgotten.”

Stora was outraged making no attempt to hide the anger on his face. Something about his face was making Siro feel a little nervous. Stora gesticulated wildly: “I will have you know that many of the most esteemed people of Brie are devoted followers of Johology—”

“I will be honest with you,” Siel interrupted, staring Stora’s. “I have studied it and I think that the religion is completely ludicrous not to mention outdated and fairly boring. Now where was I?” Stora was absolutely furious, his right hand balled into a tight fist, and his right hand…? “Johansen, I am certain that your province has not offered anything in the way of supplies or services or exports to the rest of the kingdom for many generations.” For no reason Siro became very nervous. It was Stora’s left hand, Siro could not see it? Siel went on, obviously much calmer than Siro felt. “Brie and its greedy ruling family seem to be confused about modern times?” Wait, there was Stora’s hand. It was behind his back, reaching for… “Brie seems to believe that it is its own kingdom. Your family remains ignorant that all of the fortunes they wrap themselves in are taken directly from the actual royal family and taxes that other counties give and you withhold. I think—”

For a normal person the ensuing flurry of motion was too quick to see and register. If it were slowed down it would have been obvious to see Stora shifting his weight while pulling a shiny object from the back of his pants. It was a small dagger. Stora plunged it at Siel’s throat with lightning speed. However within the same instant a blow from Stora’s right sharply struck the weapon from his hand. Siro had seen the attack coming. Without any thought he had launched a swift counterattack which disarmed the would-be assassin. In the later years of training Siel would teach Siro that fighting in this way, without thought, was the purest form of combat.

As the dagger bounced on the grass Siel took a few slow steps backwards, his face looking genuinely surprised. The Royal Knight glanced incredulously at the dagger on the ground and the attacker in turn. Meanwhile Stora spun to face Siro. The boy was now berserk with rage.

“How dare you strike me, peasant?” He spat, abandoning all pretenses. “How does a farm boy from Slovas ever hope to measure up to someone of my upbringing?” Stora stepped into a hand-to-hand combat stance, glaring at Siro.

Siro held up his hands in surrender. “Stora, it was my duty to prevent you from doing that,” he shook his head. “Please stand down, I do not wish to fight with you.”

“You insult me by speaking,” Stora advanced. “I will show you how unworthy you are.”

Siro tried to say something else but Stora lashed out viciously. Siro dodged Stora’s wild punch and jumped backward to avoid the uppercut that followed it. Stora was far too angry to fight effectively, his moves were simply to predict and he lacked form and finesse. Stora attempted a kick but found himself flipping hard onto his back as Siro countered the wild attack, using the badly controlled momentum of the kick against his attacker.

“Stora Johansen,” The newly composed Siel’s voice carried a strength and command that had not been present at any time before. The power behind Siel’s voice was enough to keep Stora lying motionless on the ground and to make Siro step into parade rest. “You have failed the test of level headedness. Furthermore you have performed a grave error in judgment today. You are disqualified indefinitely. Feel grateful that I do not incarcerate you or simply destroy you myself.”

Stora Johansen was silent as his escort half-carried him away. The glare that Stora gave Siro, however, was savage enough that he still remembered it years of training later as he rode Faith through the deep woods.

Siro shook his head again, his mind returning to the present. “Johansen? A Royal Ranger?” He thought for sure that the arrogant boy would have been banned from any royal position after the attack on Siel. A week or so after that day in the meadow Sir Siel and a very tired Siro received news that Stora Johansen had been sent home indefinitely and that his escort had been demoted by the courts for allowing his charge to conceal a weapon into the test.

Remembering his past in such detail helped Siro to wake up a bit. He stretched his arms and listened to the forest again.

What was that sound?

At this same moment Faith stopped dead, ears flattening against his head. Siro turned slowly to his right. There it was, crouched lithely between two great trees, staring at him with hunger and a bloodlust that only warlords and kings can ever attain. It was a beast, a giant lizard larger almost twice the size of a man crouched on all fours. Siro could see the things muscles quivering beneath its gray skin. The reptile’s long tail lashed back and forth behind it. Any moment the beast would strike.

That was when Siro heard more noise.

He glanced around. Waiting on the ground and clinging to the trunks of the trees Siro counted seven more giant lizards staring at him with hungry, yellow eyes.

Siro must have still be tired because he did not react quickly enough as the lizard to his right launched itself at Faith. Siro was thrown off of the horse. All the beasts charged at once.