A Seemingly Ordinary Knight

As the early morning sun began to rise, its light barely peeking over the mountain range in the distance, Sir Francis's convoy finally arrived at the Royal Magic Academy. The group was a sight to behold—mud-covered, exhausted, and disheveled. Sir Francis, barely able to suppress a massive yawn, blinked drowsily, his eyes heavy with fatigue. The guardsmen accompanying him were equally worn out, their armor caked with dried mud from the previous day's struggles, and even the horses were similarly stained and restless.

The carriage in which Sylvia and Amabel were riding wasn't spared either. The once-elegant vehicle was now streaked with mud along its sides. Inside, however, the two women remained blissfully asleep, unaware of the convoy's arrival or the discomfort the others had endured throughout the night.

After exchanging a few brief gestures with the watchman at the academy's entrance, Sir Francis's convoy was allowed inside. They were escorted to a small, secluded yard at the back of the academy, equipped with a stable and space for the carriages. A handful of servants were already present, prepared to help unload the baggage and tend to the weary horses.

Standing near the back door of the academy was Sir William, his posture relaxed but exuding authority. He wore a more casual outfit than his usual armor or formal wear, though the quality of his attire still spoke of wealth and status. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he appeared to be waiting patiently for Sir Francis.

As the convoy came to a halt, the tired horses snorted in relief, and the guardsmen, though weary, began to dismount and stretch their aching limbs. Sir Francis, rubbing his eyes, glanced over at Sir William and offered a tired grin. Sir William raised an eyebrow and chuckled lightly at the state of his fellow knight. Sir Francis however sighed in relief at the thought of a break from their grueling journey.

The sun had fully risen, casting a warm, golden light over the academy grounds. Watchmen patrolled the compound, their armor clinking softly as they walked along the stone paths, keeping a vigilant eye on the peaceful morning. The academy, now bathed in daylight, buzzed with quiet activity as students and staff began their daily routines.

Inside the academy, in a luxurious bathroom reserved for distinguished guests, Sylvia and Amabel were indulging in a well-deserved bath. The room was serene, with soft light filtering through the high windows and the scent of lavender and herbs lingering in the air. The large circular wooden tub, filled with steaming warm water, was perfectly suited for relaxation. Sylvia rested languidly at the edge of the tub, her arms crossed beneath her head, which lay gently on the rim. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow, as she savoring every moment of peace after their arduous journey.

Amabel, seated beside her, leaned back against the smooth wooden wall of the tub, her body submerged in the comforting warmth. Water rippled slightly as she shifted, her expression content as she let the heat melt away the fatigue from the bumpy ride through the swamp. The room was quiet except for the faint sound of water lapping against the sides of the tub, a perfect haven of tranquility and calm. Every breath, every drop of water that moved, added to the sense of deep relaxation that both women shared, making the chaotic journey seem like a distant memory.

Meanwhile, in another part of the academy, the men's bathroom was a stark contrast to the serene atmosphere of the women's bath. The room, built with practicality in mind, featured a long rectangular stone tub that was flush against the wall, its rough edges worn smooth from years of use. Unlike the warm, inviting waters of Sylvia and Amabel's bath, the water flowing into this tub was frigid, pouring in from an old-fashioned spout with no signs of steam rising from its surface.

Sir Francis and a handful of guardsmen were clustered around the stone tub, hurriedly scrubbing away the grime and mud that clung stubbornly to their bodies. Wooden dippers were hastily filled and splashed over their heads and shoulders, the cold water causing more than a few to shiver involuntarily. Some grunted in discomfort, their muscles still aching from the journey, while others hurriedly scrubbed themselves down, eager to escape the biting cold.

The air in the men's bathroom was filled with the sharp sounds of water splashing and hurried footsteps as the group tried to finish as quickly as possible.

Sometimes later...

"Arghhh..." a loud grunt echoed through the main dining hall as Sir Francis leaned back in his chair, gripping a large wooden ale mug. He took a deep swig, savoring the strong drink. "That hits the spot," he thought to himself, feeling the warmth spread through his body after the cold bath and exhausting journey.

The hall was far from quiet. The guardsmen who had traveled with Sir Francis filled the space, their voices booming as they laughed and chatted, enjoying the food and drink that the academy had generously prepared. Plates piled with roasted meats, warm bread, and fresh fruit were passed around, while the sound of clinking mugs and hearty laughter filled the air. It was a much-needed break for the men after the rough trek through the swampy terrain.

In contrast, Sylvia and Amabel sat in a different dining room, one designed for more private and refined meals. The room was much quieter, with only the soft clinking of silverware and the gentle murmur of servants tending to their needs. The breakfast served to them was no less hearty, but the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the raucous main hall. Sylvia, while cutting into her food, couldn't help but complain.

"Honestly, why must the men be so loud?" she remarked, her tone tinged with annoyance. "Can't they eat quietly for once?"

Amabel, sitting across from her, stifled a chuckle. She found Sylvia's irritation amusing, knowing full well that the men were simply enjoying themselves after such a taxing journey.

Back in the main dining hall, Sir Francis was finishing up his meal, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin when Sir William entered the room. Standing by his side, Sir William greeted him with a nod.

"Oh, William," Sir Francis said, looking up from his mug. He straightened in his seat and added, "Did you receive my message?"

"Yes, I sure did," Sir William responded, his expression serious but calm. He then subtly gestured for Sir Francis to follow him away from the bustling dining hall.

Sir Francis took one last swig from his ale mug, wiped his hands clean, and stood up. He glanced around at his men, still lost in their conversations and laughter, before following Sir William out of the hall. Whatever they were about to discuss, it seemed important enough to warrant privacy.

At a narrow pathway flanked by a tall stone wall on one side and arching pillars on the other, Sir Francis sat on the slab beneath the arches, his back facing the scenic green landscape that stretched out towards the distant mountains. The sky was clear, but the air carried a biting chill, a sign that winter was fast approaching. Sir William stood beside him, arms crossed against his chest, his expression calm but attentive.

"Your message," Sir William began, breaking the silence, "you said the mother crystal harbors a fragment of a soul sealed inside it."

Sir Francis, looking somewhat distant, nodded. "Yes, it was Master Frode who discovered it."

A moment of quiet hung between them, the wind picking up slightly as it rustled the bare branches of nearby trees. Sir Francis's face grew more serious as he spoke again, his tone more intense.

"What disturbs me the most is Master Frode stating that the soul exudes a malevolent aura."

Sir William raised an eyebrow, the only visible sign of his deepening concern. "How malevolent?" he asked, his voice calm but curious.

Sir Francis lowered his head for a moment, his thoughts heavy. He then fixed his gaze back on the stone wall in front of him. "He didn't go into detail," he replied. "He simply said it was dark, evil—an entity filled with malevolence."

Sir William, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, looked off into the distance before speaking again. "The only malevolent entity we've come across by name, is the Demon Lord Alastair."

Sir Francis gave a small nod, his expression still grave. "Exactly. If the words of the captured servant are to be believed, then the series of attacks—the witches' assault on Rothrosia Castle, the ambush on my convoy carrying the mother crystal, and Alastair's name etched into the magic circle at the perpetrator's meeting house—it all points back to him."

He paused, taking a breath as the wind gusted, scattering dried leaves around their feet. The once full trees were now mostly barren, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers against the cold, pale sky.

"If I were to wager a guess," Sir Francis continued, "the soul fragment sealed within the mother crystal could very well be his."

Sir William remained quiet for a moment, letting the weight of the statement sink in. His eyes scanned the landscape briefly before he turned back to Sir Francis. "Are you certain?" he asked quietly, his voice measured.

Sir Francis glanced up at him, meeting his gaze with a resolute look. "We need to know more," he said, his tone firm. "The history behind the mother crystal, especially the one now locked away at the research facility—it holds the answers. And those answers might be hidden in the archives."

The wind howled once more, blowing stronger now, as if nature itself acknowledged the weight of their conversation. Winter was coming swiftly, but so too was the storm of dark revelations that seemed to be unraveling.

The two knights stood there for a moment, both aware that whatever they uncovered in the archives could reshape everything they knew about the kingdom's past... and its future.