Despite the large number of members, Ethan's caravan heading towards the capital had only three carriages and four wagons. Two of the wagons carried provisions for the journey, and the other two carried five guards each. The carriages, however, were specifically for non-combatants: one carriage carried the caravan's servants, another carried Larry and his personal guards, and the third was the carriage where Ethan, Helena, and Peter were traveling.

  Ethan seemed troubled. Normally he liked journeys, loved them even, but right now he only felt restless, wishing the carriage could somehow travel as fast as a modern car to quickly reach the 'royal capital'. Peter and Helena simply watched as Ethan grew increasingly agitated as the carriage swayed due to the bumpy road. They had to do something; making the trip less stressful for Ethan was their job, after all. Peter sighed, gathering his courage, and finally spoke:

  "My Lord, does something trouble you?"

  Ethan didn't answer immediately; he still hadn't gotten used to being called 'My Lord'. But when he realized Peter was speaking to him, he looked up to face him and answered the question.

  "I just want to get there soon, that's all."

  There wasn't much to be done. The journey had only just begun and wouldn't end anytime soon, so Peter attempted the only thing he could: distracting him from the wait.

  "My Lord, if I may be so bold, may I ask something of you?"

  "Hm... Sure... I guess."

  Peter maintained his characteristic smile and retrieved a small notebook from his travel bag. He then picked up a quill and began observing Ethan like a painter.

  "I would like to try and capture your image!"

  A faint smile appeared on Ethan's lips as he observed the boyish demeanor of the youth in front of him. "Is this what you do to pass the time, Peter?" he asked with genuine curiosity. "Can I take a look at your sketches?"

  "Of course, My Lord."

  Peter handed his small notebook to Ethan, who began analyzing each page, noting the detail in every sketch. Besides portraits of people—mostly sons or daughters of nobles Peter needed to keep a reference of—there were some beautiful landscapes in the notebook.

  "This is incredible, Peter. You're probably the best artist I've ever known," Ethan commented, flipping through Peter's notebook.

  "You are too kind, My Lord. My notes are hardly worthy of attention. You will certainly be impressed by the royal painters when we reach the capital."

  The carriage's sway was constant, a reminder of the distance between Ethan and his home. He still held Peter's notebook, his eyes fixed on a sketch of a misty forest that seemed to breathe.

  "Interesting," Ethan said and glanced at the surrounding landscapes... an idea passed through his mind. "Peter, do you happen to have another notebook?"

  Peter's characteristic smile widened even further.

  "Of course, My Lord!" Peter rummaged through the travel bag at his feet, an organized mess of scrolls, quills, and small vials of ink. He pulled out an item wrapped in a piece of coarse linen cloth.

  "I always carry some extras," he explained, extending the package. "This one has blank pages of good quality, even better than those in mine. It's a traveler's notebook. Here, My Lord."

  Ethan accepted the notebook. It was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, and the cover, made of dark brown leather, was surprisingly soft. The smell of new paper and the slight touch of leather brought a strange comfort.

  "Thank you, Peter," Ethan said, opening the cover and feeling the texture of the paper with his fingertip. "I... I think I need a place to put things in order. I can't keep everything in my head anymore."

  Helena, who had been observing in silence from the corner of the carriage, nodded gently. She was always pristine, dressed in her simple maid's apron, but her presence brought a surprising calm.

  "It's an excellent idea, My Lord," she commented in her soft voice. "A record helps to settle the mind. Naming things and writing them down makes the unfamiliar, familiar."

  Peter, taking the cue, picked up a quill and a small inkpot and handed them to Ethan. "If I may suggest, start with the dates, My Lord. You will certainly want to remember when you made your notes."

  Ethan nodded, smiling faintly at the immediate and practical help. He dipped the quill into the black ink and touched it to the paper, feeling the familiarity of writing, even with such an antique tool.

  He hesitated for a moment, the ink hovering over the first page. What am I doing? Writing a magic diary? The idea was ridiculous, but the need to record the madness was real. With silent determination, he wrote the warning header, almost like an incantation, and then continued with what Peter had told him:

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  \

  First Passage

  This notebook belongs to Ethan Martins. I intend to write about my time in the world of Valorn in this notebook. This is personal information for my eyes only. If you found this notebook, return it immediately to a guard; it will certainly return to my possession, and under no circumstances read the contents of this book.

  According to Peter the Messenger, today is the third day of the fourth moon of Valorn. Honestly, the way they count time is so confusing; I'll have to write that down at some point or I'll go crazy, assuming I'm not crazy already.

  We are traveling through the eastern territory of Kamrhin, the kingdom of humans. Our goal is the royal capital, where I intend to find out why the hell these guys decided to bring me to this crazy place. All I want is to get there and tell this King Dogul guy that he called the wrong person. I mean, what can someone in high school do to help a king??? But honestly, I don't think going home will be that simple...

  But this place isn't all bad; at least the people are kind to me. To be honest, I even think they're a little afraid of me. They call me The Summoned or something like that, and they do everything they can to please me, especially Peter and Helena, my personal "servants." For someone who comes from a time when the monarchy is practically extinct, I feel very uncomfortable with the way they interact with me, as if I were some kind of god they need to please at all costs.

  But what catches my attention the most isn't the hierarchical system of the monarchy, or the fact that this world seems to have stopped evolving in the Middle Ages. This world has something that in mine people could only imagine and dream about: Magic! Helena was the one who showed me the art of magic. She can make flames appear in her hands out of nowhere; it's simply incredible! I need to know how she does that; maybe I should ask later...

  To be honest, I don't know what to expect on this ten-day journey, or what I will have to go through during my time here in this strange world, but I will do everything I can to return home as quickly as possible.

  /

  He wrote for a long time, the tip of the quill scratching the paper, the rhythmic sound contrasting with the monotonous rocking of the carriage. He felt less like "The Summoned" and more like a student taking notes on a new and bizarre field trip.

  When he finally stopped, his hand ached, but the feeling of restlessness had considerably diminished. He had turned anxiety into ink. He closed the notebook, the smell of leather and ink lingering.

  "Is it a good start, My Lord?" Peter asked, without indiscreet curiosity, only with the concern of a good assistant.

  Ethan smiled, placing the notebook in the inner pocket of his coat. "It is. It's the only possible beginning, Peter."

  The Royal Palace of Kamrhin was, in its essence, a grandiose celebration of power and solidity, built with the darkest, most resistant basalt in the kingdom. The Throne Room, in particular, was a vast chamber where stone arches soared to a vaulted ceiling, reinforcing the sense of smallness in any being who entered there. In the center, upon a dais elevated by seven white marble steps—which made a beautiful contrast with the rest of the room—rested the Lion's Throne, sculpted with the beast's head and claws, the ancestral symbol of the Royal House.

  But despite all the glory of the place, the hall vibrated with an aura of discouragement and hopelessness. Servants exchanged glances, unsure what to do, and guards sighed sadly as they looked toward the throne where the king sat in his fragile state.

  King Dogul, Eighth of his Name, was a man with broad shoulders, a grizzled—once red—beard, and penetrating green eyes. He wore a heavy, wine-velvet coat lined with wolf fur, though the weather didn't demand it. His body, once large and strong, was now thin, almost anemic, but he maintained a firm posture with the dignity of a true king.

  Below him, standing on the first step of the dais, was Asher, his third son and, ironically, the only one who seemed completely at ease in that chamber.

  Asher did not have the robustness of his father or Arman, his older brother, but he possessed a cold elegance. He wore simple clothes of dark grey fabric, but the fit and quality were undeniably royal. His green eyes, sharp and slightly ironic, observed the open scroll in his hand as he spoke, as if he were reciting a market's list of provisions and not addressing matters of state.

  "In summary, Father, Messenger Peter estimates the caravan will arrive in seven or, at most, eight days, depending on how many accidents Lord Larry causes along the way," Asher informed, his calm and almost bored voice echoing lightly in the vaults. "They are following the Eastern itinerary, as ordered."

  King Dogul sighed, a deep, weary sound. "Seven days. It feels like an eternity. Seven days until our salvation, Asher." His voice was hoarse, but there was a hint of hope in it.

  "Salvation is a strong word, Father," Asher replied, closing the scroll with a snap. "As far as Peter informed us in the letter he sent with his magic, the boy doesn't even know the basics of magic. Can we truly expect anything from him? If he is not what we hoped for, we will have merely lost resources, time, and morale."

  King Dogul straightened his shoulders, his grizzled beard trembling slightly. "It is true that the situation is far from ideal, but we must keep the long view in mind, my son. A resource like 'The Summoned' is better in our possession than in the enemy's."

  Asher held firm, facing his father, his eyes shining with stubbornness. "Indeed, the risk of leaving him in enemy hands would be greater than bringing him here. Nevertheless, I suspect that all the expectation placed upon this 'Ethan' will be wasted time. What can one truly expect from a boy who doesn't even know how to use a sword?"

  "What to expect? Hope, Asher!" King Dogul leaned forward on the throne, his voice low and hoarse. "Even if he does not possess the expected initial aptitudes, a hero is what we need to raise our fragile morale. The people need a new figure in whom they can trust now that their king is nothing more than a scarecrow."

  Asher lowered his gaze to the white marble and bowed reverently. "Do not speak nonsense, Father. I believe not even your own father was as great a king as you. Even if The Summoned cannot restore your health, I will find it somehow."

  The king leaned back, the weight of the cloak and the crown visible on his shoulders. "You are still young, my son. Do not waste your life on trivialities like your brother Lucio. From you, I expect the model that Cybele needs, and the man who would make your mother proud."

  Silence followed for a time until Asher replied in a soft voice, "Yes, Father," and then rose and left the royal hall.