Caelan's departure from Lumora three years ago had been a quiet affair, the dawn light casting long shadows across the Holy Palace's marble courtyard as he stood by a simple carriage, his leather pack slung over one shoulder.
At fifteen, his sandy hair was cropped short, his blue eyes bright with a mix of excitement and unease, his lean frame clad in a plain tunic of gray.
The World Academy, nestled in the neutral city of Eryndor, was a beacon for young warriors across Philan, its halls promising mastery in combat, strategy, and lore.
Caelan, chosen for his skill with a blade and his unyielding spirit, had been sent by Pope Seraphius IV to represent Aeloria, a chance to hone his talents and forge alliances beyond the Holy Empire's borders.
Elshua, then eleven, had stood by the gates, his golden hair neatly trimmed, his golden eyes glistening, their woven cord and wooden lion exchanged as tokens of their bond.
"Don't get cocky out there," Elshua had teased, his voice light but tight, and Caelan's grin, wide and brash, had been his reply before the carriage rolled away.
The journey to Eryndor took two weeks, the roads winding through Aeloria's rose-draped valleys and into the rugged hills of neutral lands.
Caelan, alone but for a driver and a Holy Knight escort, spent the days reading scrolls on swordplay and nights staring at the stars, his thoughts on Lumora, Elshua's laughter, and the weight of his mission.
'I'll make them proud,' he thought, his blue eyes steady, clutching the wooden lion.
'Aeloria's counting on me. Elshua's counting on me.'
The World Academy loomed in his mind, a crucible where empires sent their best, a place where a paladin-in-training could rise or falter.
Eryndor was a sprawling city of stone and glass, its spires less ornate than Lumora's but sturdy, built for function over faith. The Academy, a fortress of gray granite, stood at its heart, its courtyards alive with the clash of steel and shouts of students.
Caelan arrived, his pack heavy, his tunic dusty, and was thrust into a world of discipline and diversity.
Students from Veltharia, with their arcane-tinged blades, sparred beside archers from the desert tribes of Kharis, their bows singing.
Mages from the northern isles wove frost and flame, while Caelan, trained in Aeloria's divine combat, wielded a longsword imbued with faint holy light, his strikes precise, his stance unyielding.
The instructors, grizzled veterans from across Philan, drilled them relentlessly—sword forms at dawn, strategy at noon, lore by dusk, their voices sharp, their expectations sharper.
Caelan adapted quickly, his Aelorian training a foundation, his natural talent a spark. His sandy hair, kept short for practicality, gleamed with sweat during sparring, his blue eyes keen as he faced opponents twice his size.
He was younger than many, but his agility and faith-driven strength earned respect. In his first year, he faced a Veltharian student, a boy named Toren, whose arcane blade crackled with lightning.
Caelan parried, his sword glowing faintly, and disarmed Toren with a swift twist, earning a nod from their instructor.
"Good, Aelorian," the man said, his voice gruff. "Your light's strong—keep it sharp."
Caelan's grin hid his exhaustion, his thoughts on Elshua.
'Wish you saw that,' he thought, his hand brushing the woven cord at his wrist. 'I'm getting there.'
Life at the Academy was grueling but vibrant. Caelan shared a dormitory with three others—a Kharisian archer named Lira, whose quick wit matched her arrows; a northern mage, Soren, whose quiet demeanor hid a fiery temper; and a Veltharian squire, Veyra, whose jokes kept them laughing late into the night.
They sparred, studied, and argued, their bonds forged in sweat and shared meals of bread and stew in the mess hall.
Caelan's letters to Elshua, sent monthly, were filled with tales—Lira's trick shots, Soren's accidental fires, Veyra's pranks on instructors.
"Miss your saintly nagging," he wrote, his scrawl messy but warm.
"This place is chaos, but I'm holding my own. You better be shining back in Lumora."
Elshua's replies, always prompt, brought Lumora's light to Eryndor, their friendship a tether across the distance.
By his second year, Caelan's skill had grown, his swordplay fluid, his divine techniques—Mendlight for minor wounds, Aegis for shielding—second nature.
He topped sparring ranks, his name whispered among students, though he brushed off praise, his grin deflecting envy. Strategy classes were tougher, his mind sharp but impatient with maps and politics.
"You're a blade, not a quill," Lira teased, her dark eyes glinting, and Caelan laughed, his blue eyes bright.
'She's right,' he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. 'But I'll learn—can't let Aeloria down.'
He studied Veltharian tactics, their arcane-heavy strategies a puzzle, and Kharisian guerrilla methods, their stealth a challenge. Nights were spent reading by candlelight, the wooden lion on his desk a reminder of home.
In his third year, now eighteen, Caelan faced trials—tournaments where students battled summoned constructs, their forms shifting from wolves to golems.
His team, with Lira's arrows and Soren's frost, won a grueling match, his sword cleaving a stone construct as his Aegis shielded Veyra from a fiery blast.
The victory earned him a week's vacation, a rare reward, and he wrote to Elshua, his letter brimming with pride.
'Topped the ranks,' he thought, sealing the parchment. 'Might visit Lumora, see you shine. Bet you're tripping into glory again.'
The thought of Elshua, his golden hair neatly trimmed, his golden eyes warm, stirred a pang of homesickness, but Caelan pushed it aside, his focus on the Academy's demands.
Now, standing in the Academy's main courtyard, his longsword at his side, his leather armor scuffed but polished, Caelan's sandy hair was tied back tightly, his blue eyes scanning the horizon.
The vacation loomed, a chance to return to Lumora, but his thoughts were on his growth, his purpose.
'Three years,' he thought, his hand brushing the woven cord. 'I'm stronger, sharper, but there's more to learn. Aeloria needs me ready—not just for Lumora, but for whatever's coming.'
Rumors of unrest reached Eryndor—demonic rifts in distant lands, Veltharia's growing ambition—and Caelan's instincts, honed by training, sensed a storm.
'Elshua's in the thick of it,' he thought, his heart steady. 'The Spark's always in trouble. I'll get back, stand with him.'
His days were a rhythm of discipline—dawn sparring, midday tactics, evening lore. He'd mastered advanced forms, his sword a blur, his divine light steady.
Instructors praised his leadership, assigning him to guide younger students, his patience surprising even himself. Lira, now a close friend, challenged him to archery, her laughter sharp when he missed.
Soren shared spells, their debates sparking late-night talks, while Veyra's pranks kept their spirits high. Yet, Caelan's thoughts often drifted to Lumora, to Elshua's letters, their bond unbroken despite the miles.
'He's probably buried in books or tripping into some saintly mess,' he thought, his grin fond. 'I'll see him soon, make sure he's not too holy for his own good.'
The Academy's neutrality, like Aeloria's, was a delicate balance, students from rival empires training side by side, their loyalties tested in debates and duels.
Caelan navigated it with care, his Aelorian faith a quiet strength, his sword a bridge to others. He'd sparred with Veltharians, their arcane blades a challenge, and learned their tactics, their pride in their empire's might.
'Veltharia's bold,' he thought, parrying a strike in his mind. 'If they're sniffing around Lumora, Elshua's got trouble.
I need to be ready.' His vacation, starting in days, was a chance to return, to stand by the Spark, to face whatever shadows loomed.
As dusk fell over Eryndor, Caelan stood on the Academy's ramparts, the city's lights flickering below, his blue eyes distant. The wooden lion rested in his palm, its edges worn, a tether to Elshua, to Aeloria.
'Three years,' he thought, his voice silent, his heart a flame. 'I'm not the kid who left. I'll go back stronger, for Lumora, for him.'
The stars above mirrored those over Lumora, and Caelan, the paladin-in-training, forged his path, his resolve unyielding, ready to face the gathering storm.