The praecantor turned to my mother, bowing with the practiced elegance of respect, and whispered, “Nos mento Azeroth.” We remember Azeroth. But who is Azeroth?
I caught a single tear escaping down my mother’s face as she returned the gesture. When her gaze shifted to me, it was impossible to miss the sorrow lingering in her eyes—a sorrow stirred by the mere mention of that name. I’ve wanted to ask about it ever since, but she’d tell me if she thought I needed to know.
The centurion standing behind the praecantor took my belongings and loaded them onto the waiting wagon. My mother gave me one last hug, her kiss brushing my hornless head. “Make me proud, Zageth,” she said, her voice steady but thick with emotion.
“I promise,” I replied, meaning every syllable.
The journey began. We left the farm behind, heading down the familiar dirt path toward the town my mother often visited. From there, our destination was the city of Nausis, as the praecantor had mentioned during one of her rare conversations.
For me, this was uncharted territory. It was my first glimpse beyond the endless fields of Jeto that bordered my mother’s home. The excitement was undeniable—an intoxicating mix of nervous energy and wonder. My head kept turning, my eyes trying to capture every new sight and detail.
The wagon rolled across open terrain where the grass shimmered like golden hay, and towering mountains framed the horizon like an artist’s masterpiece. Jagged rock formations jutted upward, their veins glowing faintly with an eerie mix of purples and blues. A massive winged creature with shimmering azure skin screeched overhead, soaring toward the peaks. The entire scene felt surreal, as if I had stepped into the pages of a storybook.
Hours later, as Nausis came into view, the thrill intensified. The city’s splendor was overwhelming. At its heart stood an immense black tower that disappeared into the clouds. Its segmented structure was marked by a glowing green line that cut through the center like a stroke of pure energy.
Beneath this tower now lay the city with Gothic architecture. The city walls were lined with sharp battlements. I desired to sit beside the driver, but fear kept me firmly in my seat.
The wagon eventually stopped at Nausis’s colossal gates. Smaller wagons buzzed moved back and forth, and armored legionnaires stood guard. As we approached, the guards saluted before demanding a “medallion” from the praecantor. She coolly removed a necklace, revealing an ornate pendant. "Proceed, Melior," the guard declared, stepping back and saluting.
The wagon slowly navigated through the bustling streets. The driver brandishes his whip, threatening people to clear the way with their goods, but they remain unmoved. The massive centurion stomped from the back of the wagon. "Out of the way!" he commanded, his deep voice instilling enough fear to set the vendors into motion.
Those who refused to move were moved out of the way forcefully. A smirk crept onto my face; I relished this spectacle.
We proceeded from the bustling street toward a barracks near the towering structure, its looming presence casting a significant portion in dark shadow. "Welcome to the Night Fort, this is going to be your home for a while," she said. How intimidating; it sent a shiver down my spine.
The legionnaires seized my belongings and headed toward the massive metal gate. It was a black gate adorned with the image of a menacing gorngaar, its eyes replaced by glowing stones. Similar to those on the outer city wall, the barracks' walls featured sharp battlements.
As we approached the gate, the legionnaire who stood watch disappeared for a moment before we heard, “Open the gate!” followed by the clang and rattle as the gate rose. The wagon entered, and I was met with familiar architecture. It was similar in style to European buildings. What seemed to be a square or a parking lot for the armored wagons was in front of the building. A building behind it was shaped like a right-angle, with a path leading somewhere else in the fort. The smell of manure hit my nostrils immediately, alerting me to some sort of animal in this fort—it was probably a gorngaar.
We cut across the square and descended the path beside the right-angle building. The path led straight to what seemed to be the main headquarters. To the left, stables containing gorngaar were surrounded by grass with a purple hue and speckles of light.
The praecantor guided us down the stone path into the main building, where I had to state my name and undergo another evaluation. The outcome mirrored my previous one, just as when the praecantor instructed me to place my hand on the box. Subsequently, I was assigned to a praecantor training group.
I observed that the barracks for the praecantors were situated in a more secluded section of the fort. Close to it, a massive structure bore a resemblance to a Gothic church constructed from stone with a distinctive shade of purple.
“This is Nutarth Praecantor Academy, where you hone your magical skills to serve our Grand Duke Nortamo in his midnight legions,” the praecantor told me as we made our way to the building. “From now on, you will refer to me as Centuri Plaara, understood?”
“Yes, Centuri Plaara,” I said, receiving a nod from the menacing woman.
We entered the barracks to a large room with beds on both sides. Newbies like me sat on the beds chatting with each other, ignorant of our presence. It was a peculiar sight. These demons were not separated by gender. Only God knows what other customs they had.
"In line!" Centuri Plaara commanded. All of these high demons sprang into action, going beside their beds and standing at attention—an open right hand on the heart and the left hand behind their back with their chins held high.
“Meet Zageth," she says pushing me forward a little. "Tomorrow, we will start your training. I hope you are prepared.” Centuri Plaara placed her hand on my back before pointing out the vacant bed where all my belongings rested.
Even though I am one of them, I feel out of place. I am a head taller than them, and my head is devoid of a horn. I received some looks of surprise and disgust, but I strutted down the lane like a male supermodel, not giving them so much as a glance before standing at attention.
Plaara surveyed us before nodding and exiting the room. It was a few awkward seconds of silence before everyone began to stare at me. I looked them in the face, showing I was not intimidated.
“You’re kin to Azeroth, aren’t you?” a short girl with raven black hair, horns at the sides of her head, pointy ears, red eyes, and pale grey skin with markings on her nose and cheeks asked. A snort came from another part of the room. “Gimme a break,” a very plump boy said. “Everyone knows Azeroth has no kin.”
Everyone kept their eyes on me, and I could feel the weight in the room—everyone was anxious for an answer. Seeing as no one had informed me about who this "Azeroth" person might be, I took this perfect opportunity to inquire.
“Who’s Azeroth?”
A collective gasp echoed throughout the room at the question. “Are you faulty?” another one of them asked. The girl who started this scene cut in. “Azeroth is the best of us, legionnaire. The only legionnaire who was able to gain the attention of Lord Nortamo after rebelling against him. The man who defeated the cacodemons at the Battle of Ceveh.”
I stood dumbfounded at the knowledge that was being spewed at me. I read of no such battle in the history books left at my mother’s home, but maybe I am related to this celebrity.
“I unfortunately do not know who you speak of, and maybe our last names are a coincidence,” I said as politely as I could.
Their jaws were touching the floor—I almost laughed.
“You are interesting,” the girl with the red eyes said.
I didn't know what else to do or say, so I just shrugged. If she could read my mind, she would understand just how weird they are to me, as I am to them.
<<
Thirty of us stood in what seemed to be a training ground at the back of the barracks, with our heads held high, standing at attention. It was dark, and we could only clearly see due to the gemstone lamps placed all around the grounds that gave off a bright blue light.
We stood there for about five minutes, waiting for Plaara to come back. I remained still, but my peers were becoming restless. From what I knew about militaries from my old world, the mishaps of the few causes trouble for the many, and I was not about to be scolded.
“I suggest you all remain at attention,” I said to the few who were chattering.
Some stopped and got back into their positions, but a few continued to chatter. “Didn’t you three hear?” I asked authority in my tone.
A chubby demon with a purple hue on his forehead, transitioning from that gradient to greenish-greyish skin, with two stumpy horns sticking from his forehead, looked at me with a nasty scowl before making his way toward me with his two buddies. He couldn’t walk properly in his training attire—a black and silver long-sleeved tunic with hightop boots; he waddled in his tight pants and breathed like a pig. The boy was taller than his peers but shorter than me—I was not intimidated.
“Who put you in charge, troglodyte."
I almost laugh because I look nothing like those cave-dwelling snow creatures, but A for effort. “No one is in charge but Centuri Plaara. I’m just trying to save your... thick hide.”
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The three rows of lines erupt into laughter, and the child before me begins breathing as if his mom denied him a snack at Walmart. I can see him tensing for a punch, and I widen my eyes as a warning, but he seems too flustered to notice. He throws a punch at me with his right, and I stand side-faced in response, letting his attack pass me. Quickly, I grab his wrist with my left hand and wrap my bicep and forearm around his elbow before throwing him over my shoulder. I shudder under his weight as I give it my all, almost hitting two of my peers behind me.
He lies sprawled on the ground, bawling like a baby, disgusting. His goons are tempted to hit me, but a scowl is all that is needed to prevent them from attempting it. My peers all look at me in awe at the move I made, but it soon switches to fear. Centuri Plaara is strutting through the hall that leads to this training ground, and every clip and clop her boots make sends stabs of fear into my chest. I immediately stand at attention.
“What is the meaning of this ruckus?” She asks, scanning the training ground. Another praecantor follows behind her, a very fit male with a long sack on his back.
“I will not ask again!” She commands. Quickly, I step forward and stand at attention. “Melior. After attempting to calm down this rabble, three of your students thought it was a good idea to try and fight me, and one of them found out the consequences of trying to do so. I apologize for any inconvenience.”
Plaara raises a brow and her face is blank to put it simply, I can not for the life of me figure out what she could be thinking.
“Point out to me the students who attacked you.”
Without hesitation, I point out all three of them. The two goons step forward, with their boss waddling behind them, face covered in tears.
“Is this true?”
They look at each other before the shortest of them answers. Andrius Ozreus. He has a dark tail, blood-red hair, and a horn that transitions from red to black in a seamless gradient at the sides of his head. Red markings surround his eyes and run down his hands and fingers.
“It’s not true, melior, Zageth speaks untruths. He attacked us first.”
I bite my lip to hold myself back; that little shit expects Plaara to believe his story? Gimme a break.
“Is that so?”
He nods his head, trying to act all innocent; it makes me sick. Plaara fixes her attention on me and smiles. I interpret this as a sign that she is on my side.
“Zageth, apologize to your peers,” she says, standing with her hands behind her back.
It takes everything in me not to scream in protest. I clear my throat and respond as calmly as I can. “Apologize for what, melior?”
“Don’t question me, do as I say,” she says, widening her eyes. I don’t know what lesson I am supposed to learn from this, but I just go along with it. “I apologize for defending myself,” I say in protest.
“I would advise you not to get smart with me, boy,” she says sternly.
I bite my lip, raise my head, and sigh, trying my best not to get mad. “I apologize for attacking your friend,” I tell Andreus.
“Good. When the entirety of this training is concluded, I want to speak to you privately. Understood?”
“Yes, melior.”
“In line!” She commands. I return to where I stood, anger still lingering. That was utter bullshit. Is there no sense of justice in this godforsaken place? I sigh, trying to get a hold of myself.
My anger dissipates as Plaara begins our lesson. The male praecantor who entered with her stands at the sidelines of the grounds close to the training dummies. “Pay close attention to what I say; every detail is important, no matter how minuscule you may think it seems,” she says, looking at each of us.
“Mana, the force that flows within you currently, is an uncontrollable tempest that requires careful guidance.”
I know what she is about to dive into but keep my mouth silenced and my mind humble—I could probably learn something new.
“Interius Emperium. A technique to control the mana that flows within you,” she says, stepping forward. “Close your eyes. Envision the entirety of your body in your mind. I do as I'm told before executing Interius Emperium as simply as a breath.
Plaara made us stand in the square for what felt like an eternity, berating anyone who dared to open their eyes. While my peers shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, I remained still, allowing the mana to circulate through my body. The sensation was familiar now, and honestly, I was bored out of my mind.
“Extend your right hand,” she commanded abruptly. The rustling of clothing followed as we all obeyed her without hesitation.
“Now,” she continued, her voice sharp and direct, “envision a fire in your mind. Imagine its heat, its motion, and feel it running to your fingertips.”
Silence fell over the group. I held back deliberately, suppressing the fire I could easily conjure. It wasn’t humility—I wanted to show off. But I also knew better than to draw attention to myself so early.
A scream broke the quiet. My eyes darted to its source. Inrissa Zevine, the girl who introduced herself when I arrived, stood wide-eyed, staring at the flame flickering in her palm. She seemed both terrified and amazed by her success.
Her scream set off a ripple effect; soon, others began conjuring their flames, albeit with varying results. That was my cue. I raised my hand and let my fire roar to life, a massive flame that dwarfed the efforts of everyone else. Theirs faltered as they turned to stare, captivated.
I kept it burning for a few moments longer, my expression neutral. Inside, though? I was reveling in the attention. Still, I knew better than to grin like a fool, so I extinguished the flame with a casual flick of my hand.
I glanced at Plaara, expecting admiration or even a hint of approval. Instead, she looked… unimpressed. What was her problem?
“What you’ve executed,” she began, her tone even, “is called externum imperium—the conjuring of an element from thought into physical form. I commend you all on your execution.”
“Thank you, Melior,” we responded in unison.
Her eyes locked onto mine briefly, and I thought I saw the faintest hint of a smile before she added, “But endurance is the foundation of strength in mana, and from what I see, most of you are sorely lacking in that regard.”
There was no time to dwell on her words as she continued, “We’ll now move to the next phase of your training. Follow me.”
We left the academy grounds, arranged into a single-file line, and waited as Plaara called forward a tall, imposing figure. He carried a large sack slung over his shoulder and moved with an air of authority. His dark skin shimmered faintly in the evening light, speckled with glowing orange-red flecks that traced his face and neck. His glowing red eyes seemed to pierce through us.
“This is Centurion Damthor Vilvanoz,” Plaara announced. “He will guide you through today’s assignment.”
Damthor approached the front of the line and began distributing wooden sabers from his sack. When he reached me, he paused, his crimson eyes narrowing as he looked me up and down. Then he let out a low “hmph,” placed the sword in my hand, and moved on.
What was that about?
When the last sword was handed out, Damthor addressed us. His voice was deep and commanding. “Endurance is the key to mastery in both mana and combat. Today, you will jog, and you will keep up. These wooden sabers are crafted to mimic the weight and balance of a machaera, the saber used in gladius elementum.”
“Yes, Melior,” we replied, though some voices trembled.
The jog began, and Damthor wasn’t exaggerating when he said it would be a long one. We wound through the city streets at a steady pace. Half an hour later, we reached the city gates. While my peers collapsed or vomited during our brief break, I stood, tired but composed.
Inrissa approached, panting heavily. “How… how are you not tired?” she asked, her voice barely more than a wheeze.
“I am tired,” I replied, wiping my brow for effect.
She eyed me suspiciously before laughing. “You lie.”
“I don’t,” I said, though I couldn’t suppress a grin.
Her grin mirrored mine, and for a brief moment, we locked eyes before Damthor’s bark shattered the moment. “Return to the academy!”
The jog back was brutal. By the time we reached the academy steps, I was utterly spent. Damthor waited, arms crossed, showing no sign of fatigue. I wanted to salute him out of pride, but my body betrayed me, collapsing to the ground.
As I lay there, catching my breath, Dharron stumbled toward me and vomited. When he raised his head, his eyes burned with determination. I couldn’t help but smirk.
Competition, I thought. Good.
The evening passed in silence. Inrissa tried to strike up conversation, but I was too drained to engage. My mind wandered back to Plaara’s cryptic words: “Out of respect for your mother… and your father.” What did she mean?
After a while, I left the barracks, ignoring Inrissa’s questions as I made my way to Plaara’s quarters. Along the way, I encountered two praecantors. One of them, a man with black horns, glared at me with disdain.
“Verraternatkhaus,” he spat. “Spawn of a traitor.”
The other praecantor dismissed him and led me to Plaara’s door. After a tense wait, Plaara’s amplified voice called, “Enter.”
I stepped inside, greeted by a room of opulence and intellect. Plaara stood by a map of the domain, her fingers tracing its surface.
“Do you know why I called you here?” she asked.
“No, Melior,” I replied.
She smiled faintly. “Let me make one thing clear,” she began. “What I’m about to do is out of respect for your mother… and your father.”
I tighten my jaw at that word—father. “Father, father, father,” I mutter with a sigh. “I don’t even know who my father is.”
She raises an eyebrow, curious, before leaning against her desk. “Your father is Azeroth,” she says simply.
I cross my arms, exhaling sharply. “From what I’ve heard, Azeroth doesn’t have kin.”
“What the others say is nothing more than speculation,” she replies, her tone sharpening. “Your mother and I, however, know the truth. You are Azeroth’s son. You even look strikingly like him—far too much for the plans we have for you.”
Plans? Me, a pawn? Absolutely not.
“I despise being treated as a tool,” I say, keeping my voice even though I feel the heat of anger rising. “Enlighten me—what exactly are these plans?”
Her lips curl slightly, an infuriatingly knowing look on her face. “Long version or short?”
“I’ve got time.”
With a measured sigh, she motions to a pair of chairs near a sculpture. We sit across from each other, and she crosses one leg over the other, preparing to begin her tale. “A century ago…”
“A century?” I echo, incredulous.
She nods. “Yes, a hundred years. Your father and I served in Nortamo’s Midnight Legions. We were at war with the cacodemons—a war that continues even now. ‘Cacodemons ad portās,’ we used to say as they advanced on our capital. Day by day, they drew closer. The losses were staggering—hundreds of thousands gone. Every time we warned Lord Nortamo, he dismissed us: ‘Protect the capital,’ he’d say. What he meant, of course, was protect me.
“We pleaded for help from the Twelve Demon Knights of Urea—the supposed defenders of our realm—but instead, they hid behind us, using us as their shield.” Her fist clenches, her voice hardening with the weight of memory.
“Our people—legionnaires, civilians—died in droves. All for a lord who cared only for his throne.” She fixes me with a piercing gaze, her eyes alight with an old fire. “You think I’m angry? You should have seen your father.”
She allows herself a small smile as she recalls him. “He stood on the battlements of Ceveh’s fortress, staring out over the devastation. And then he spoke: ‘Is this living? If so, I’d rather be dead—dead like our people, rotting in the streets we failed to protect. The Twelve Knights of Urea were meant to be our shields, but now they cower while our families perish. Enough! Whoever wishes to save their families, join me. If not, I’ll die alone, knowing I tried.’
“Then he leapt from the walls.”
She pauses, watching my reaction. I can’t help but smile. That defiance… It sounds like me.
“I was the first to follow him,” she continues. “And within moments, a hundred thousand more joined us. Your father turned the tide that day, but in doing so, he committed an unpardonable sin: defying the hierarchy.”
“But he saved them, didn’t he?” I ask.
Her smile turns bitter. “He thwarted their plans, yes. Lord Nortamo wanted those innocents dead—they were showing signs of rebellion. The massacre was deliberate—a purge disguised as incompetence.”
She leans back, her expression clouded. “Azeroth didn’t stand alone. The remnants of his legion stood with him, seeking to overthrow the hierarchy. But there’s a reason they hold their thrones—they’re unimaginably powerful. Azeroth was no exception; he killed the Wrath Knight, but they crushed us in the end.”
Her voice falters briefly before she regains composure. “They cut off his head, stitched his mouth shut, and paraded his corpse—a warning to anyone who dared defy them.”
I meet her gaze, anger simmering. “And yet, here you are. Why are you still breathing?”
Her eyes narrow. “You think I ran out of cowardice?” She bites her lip, visibly restraining herself. “I would have died for him, but he gave me a command: protect your mother. She carried his legacy—you. I obeyed. I took her to the far reaches of Beyond to ensure you could one day fulfill his dream.”
I don’t know what to say. An apology feels inadequate. “I’m sorry,” I offer quietly.
She waves it off, as if it’s meaningless. “Your ignorance is understandable. Now, about your role…”
She hesitates for a moment, then speaks with deliberate calm. “You’re a logical child, so listen carefully. Never speak of this to anyone. You look too much like him, so I’ll dye your hair black and implant horns to disguise you. I’ll train you as your father would have wanted. In return, you will complete his dream: a world free of this wretched hierarchy.”
I stand, stretching as if the weight of her words hasn’t just landed squarely on my shoulders. “Sounds simple enough. When do we start?”
Gladius Elementum- Praecantors carry a saber called a machaera
The groves in the blade of the weapon hold mana and glow purple when imbued with all types.