Altan's face lit up with gratitude, and he continued without delay. "Very well, let me begin. Before Saint Lux arrived, Windoria was divided into individualist tribes. Each tribe operated independently, refusing to meddle in another's affairs—even when goblin raids occurred."
"At the time, goblins were the hunters, their overwhelming numbers decimating any tribe they targeted. Other tribes either fled to safer grounds or stood idly by, thinking only of their own survival."
"Not only were they weaker in strength, but they also lacked fighting techniques and strategies necessary for defense." He paused briefly, his gaze distant as though reliving the past.
"The chiefs of these tribes tried countless times to unite through dialogue, but their efforts always failed. Then, one day, Saint Lux appeared. He wandered freely across the land, unbound by loyalty or obligation."
"Whenever a tribe faced a goblin attack within his vicinity, he intervened—but only alongside the angel, Sylphine, who occasionally joined him in battle. He never sought recognition or reward; once the fight ended, he vanished as swiftly as he had come."
Altan's voice grew animated as he recounted how such acts sparked curiosity among the tribal leaders. "This pattern led to a historic meeting where, for the first time, all the tribes agreed to unite under one condition: Saint Lux must become their leader."
"However, little did they know, their proposal would be rejected outright. Confused and shocked, they couldn't comprehend why anyone would refuse such an advantageous offer. But the leaders refused to give up. Believing that following Saint Lux guaranteed their safety, one tribe began trailing him wherever he went—a practice soon adopted by others."
Altan chuckled lightly, imagining the scene. "Annoyed by this development, Saint Lux summoned the leaders and demanded, 'What do you really want? Don't assume goblins are the only thing I can slay.' Terrified by his power, the leaders hesitated, but one wise and brave chief stepped forward. 'We are human too,' he admitted, 'but we lack the strength and wisdom to survive. That's why we seek your guidance—to be our leader, guardian, and symbol of unity.'"
Saint Lux scoffed dismissively. "That's not my problem if you're weak. Besides, I dislike leadership—it's too much work, too many people, and far too bothersome. Life is freedom: sleeping under the stars, running with the wind, and having fun massacring wild beasts'"—here, Altan grinned mischievously, mimicking Saint Lux's confident laugh—"'like those pesky goblins!'"
The gathered crowd laughed along with him, captivated by the tale. Altan continued, "Surprisingly, the same leader interjected again. 'What if you could continue doing all that while helping us?' Everyone—including Saint Lux—stared at him curiously."
"The leader explained, 'You would become our supreme leader, but instead of governing directly, you could appoint others to handle the tedious tasks. For starters, though, you could teach us fighting techniques—or even magic—so we can defend ourselves without relying solely on you.'"
At this point, Altan raised his eyebrows dramatically. "Imagine the uproar! Back then, magic was exceedingly rare, and magicians were practically mythical."
"Those capable of wielding magic chose their successors meticulously. Yet, after some deliberation, Saint Lux agreed—for the sake of preserving his freedom. 'When do we start?' he asked casually. The leaders were flabbergasted. Someone so powerful agreeing to teach them? Unbelievable!"
Altan leaned back slightly, savoring the dramatic tension. "The next day, they officially announced the decision to the public. When asked about naming their newfound kingdom, suggestions flew wildly—until Saint Lux hilariously chimed in with absurd ideas like 'Goblin's Head,' 'Rampaging Wrath,' or 'Let the Sky Be Our Roof.' Thankfully, a wise leader proposed a practical solution: naming the kingdom after the person responsible for uniting them—Windoria."
From there, Saint Lux took charge, selecting and training potential fighters while sharing magical knowledge with aspiring mages.
The results exceeded expectations, transforming Windoria into a thriving society. Over time, however, hunting goblins became monotonous, prompting Saint Lux to introduce competitions during hunting seasons to keep things exciting.
Eventually, true to his nature, he returned to wandering, visiting campsites sporadically—not out of duty, but for delicious meals prepared by grateful villagers.
Liora giggled uncontrollably at this part of the story, finding humor in Saint Lux's quirks.
Altan smiled warmly before concluding, "And that's why Saint Lux's legacy remains integral to us. It unites us, ensures our survival, and grants us prosperity today. Since one aspect of that legacy now belongs to you, please carry and use it wisely, Miss Liora. This power represents not only your values but ours as well."
Touched deeply, Liora nodded resolutely. "I understand, High Chief Altan. I will do my best." Altan bowed slightly, his smile widening. "Thank you so much, Miss Liora. Now, let's head back—I'm sure you need rest."
As they walked together down the hill, Liora ventured a question. "High Chief, is ruthlessness or brutality considered a value in Windoria? Do I need to adopt those traits too?"
Altan chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Brutal or moderate is merely a matter of perspective, Miss Liora. It's only covered the *what* and *how*."
"What truly matters is the *why*—the intention behind your actions. That's what differentiates right from wrong, truth from falsehood, appropriateness from impropriety."
"While my opinion may guide you, ultimately, you must evaluate this yourself along the way. But let me offer advice: don't be too hard on yourself. Remember, you're not a god. You might become incredibly powerful in the future, but you're still human. Humans doubt, confuse, and make mistakes. As long as you're alive, you can always improve over time."
Moved by his wisdom, Liora took three quick steps forward, stopping abruptly to bow deeply. "Thank you so much, High Chief Altan. I'll never forget your words."
Altan laughed heartily, approaching her to pat her shoulder affectionately. "No problem, girl. I'm glad if it helps you. Now, hurry along—we both need rest." With renewed determination, Liora nodded and continued walking alongside Altan, ready to embrace whatever challenges lay ahead.
That night, for the first time since the trial began, Liora slept deeply. The weight in her chest had lifted, replaced by something steadier—no longer a storm, but a quiet current, like a river flowing toward its purpose.
The ger was warm, the blankets soft. Outside, Windoria was quiet, save for the distant whispers of the night breeze and the occasional whinny of horses.
Elowen slept peacefully nearby, her breathing rhythmic, comforting. For Liora, there were no nightmares. Only dreams of wind and wings, of laughter echoing through golden fields. And of Sylphine, watching from above—not as a weapon or test—but as a guardian.
At sunrise, the entire population of Windoria gathered in a wide, flat clearing near the heart of the campsite. The grassy field had been carefully cleared, and a simple wooden podium had been constructed—nothing grand or imposing, just enough to elevate those who stood upon it.
Liora stood at the edge of the platform, beside High Chief Altan and the generals, with Elowen close by her side. She tried to ignore how her hands trembled or how her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Below, the crowd was massive—warriors, elders, craftsmen, hunters, even children. They whispered and buzzed among themselves, excitement and curiosity rippling like waves across the gathering.
"What's happening?". "Is it true? Did someone really summon her?". "I heard the angel of the wind god appeared!" Elowen placed a steadying hand on Liora's back. "You're doing great. Just breathe."
Then, High Chief Altan stepped forward. In his hand, he held a curious object: a short staff with a circular crystal at its tip, no larger than a clenched fist. It glowed faintly with runes.
When he spoke into it, his voice carried powerfully across the entire field, like a magical amplifier. "Good morning, people of Windoria!" he called out, his voice bold and commanding. The murmuring ceased. All eyes turned toward the podium.
"Today is a day unlike any other. Last night, we—myself and all the generals—witnessed a phenomenon that has not occurred for generations. A moment so sacred, it will be told for centuries."
Altan paused, allowing the silence to draw them in. "We stood in the presence of none other than the Angel of the Wind God—the guardian of our people, the symbol of our endurance and hope, the companion of our founder, Saint Lux Windoria."
A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Some clutched their chests. Others looked around, disbelief in their eyes.
"This was no vision, no dream. She came, and she came because someone… called her." Altan turned to Liora and gestured for her to step forward.
"That person… was Liora of Sanctora. The one deemed worthy by the ancient powers. The one chosen to bear the weight of such strength with wisdom and compassion."
The applause began slowly, then grew rapidly—cheers, whistles, hands clapping, until the sound shook the open sky. Liora stepped forward timidly, her cheeks flushed.
Standing under the full attention of an entire kingdom was overwhelming, and she instinctively glanced at Elowen. "Stand tall," Elowen mouthed with a smile.
Altan continued. "As we all know, Saint Lux and the angel are the pillars of our identity, our values, our very survival. And now… they have placed their trust in this young woman. So we must do the same."
He turned to the crowd, lifting his staff high. "By the authority of the high chief, the council of generals, and all of Windoria, we declare an oath here and now: We will support and assist Liora on her journey."
"We will stand with her on any battlefield she calls us to. We will lend her our strength, our skill, and our loyalty in every endeavor she chooses to pursue."
Then, in one synchronized movement, every person in the field dropped to one knee. They placed their right fists over their hearts, then held them up before their faces—a traditional Windorian gesture of unwavering allegiance.
Liora's eyes widened. She glanced around, breath caught in her throat. Every. Single. Person.
A kingdom—bowing before her. Not because she demanded it. Not because she fought for it. But because she had earned it.
Elowen leaned close and whispered in her ear, "Say you accept their vow. Then tell them to rise." Liora nodded slowly, heart pounding.
"I… I accept your vow," she called out, her voice trembling. "I am honored by your loyalty. Please… stand." The people rose, and a second round of cheering thundered through the field. This time, Liora smiled fully—awkward, but radiant.
Altan turned to the crowd once more, now beaming. "The formal ceremony is complete. But now… let us celebrate! Feast and laughter await! You'll find every table filled and every pot full—thanks to the hard work of our cooks and hunters!" A wave of joy erupted.
Children screamed with delight. Music began to play—lutes, flutes, and skin-drums struck up a cheerful rhythm. Dancers twirled, warriors laughed, and families sat together under bright banners.
At the podium, a long feasting table had been prepared for Liora, Elowen, Altan, and the generals. Trays of grilled meat, seasoned rice, fruits, and Windorian sweets shimmered in the morning sun.
Liora took her seat, still blinking as if waking from a dream. "You alright?" Elowen asked. "I… I don't even know how to answer that," Liora whispered. "I've never felt this… overwhelmed. But happy, too. And maybe… ready."
"Good." Elowen grinned. "You're exactly where you need to be."
That night, the celebration lasted until the stars were high and the fires low. Songs were sung of the old legends—and now, new ones had begun. The story of Liora, the girl from Sanctora, chosen by wind and fate, had already taken root in Windoria's soil.
And in her quiet ger, long after the laughter had faded, Liora found a small scroll waiting on her bedside. The seal was unfamiliar—elegant, ancient, and glowing faintly. She broke it open.
"The first trial has passed.
But the path is long, and the wind ever-changing.
Are you ready to face the sky, Master of Sylphine?"
Liora stared at the parchment, her breath steady. Then she smiled. "Yes," she whispered to no one but the wind. "I am."
The morning sun crept slowly across the Windorian plains, golden light spilling between the gers and the tall banners that fluttered lazily in the breeze.
Most of Windoria still slept, wrapped in the aftermath of a night of revelry—the music, the laughter, the wild dances that had lasted until the stars dimmed.
But at the edge of the camp, two figures stood ready. High Chief Altan and General Batu waited quietly, their posture straight, their faces serious.
Before them, a sturdy carriage drawn by two well-trained Windorian horses stood prepared for departure, its wheels freshly greased, its interior stocked with soft blankets and travel supplies.
Only two passengers stood nearby, packing the last of their gear. Liora and Elowen.
The young mage adjusted the strap of her travel pack, glancing around at the quiet camp. It felt surreal—only hours ago, this field had been full of music, food, and roaring laughter.
Now, it was silent, save for the wind brushing against her cloak. Altan stepped forward, clearing his throat. "I've arranged for the carriage to take you to the next kingdom," he said.
"It's stocked with enough food and drink to last the journey comfortably. The driver knows the roads well."
He hesitated a moment, then added with more weight in his voice, "And Liora… never forget the vow we made yesterday. That was no performance. Our words carry deep meaning in Windoria. Should you need soldiers, messengers, or even… political assistance—Windoria will answer."
Liora blinked and tilted her head. "Political assistance?" Altan chuckled—a warm, knowing sound. "You'll learn soon enough. The world has many fronts, and not all of them are battlefields with blades. Just remember: you're not alone."
Before Liora could reply, General Batu stepped forward. He held something wrapped in thick cloth, tied carefully with a leather strap.
With slow reverence, he untied it and revealed what lay within. A short dagger—but not just any blade. It gleamed like moonlight on ice. The craftsmanship was flawless—clearly forged by a master smith.
The Windorian crest was engraved into the base of the blade: a swirling gust with an eagle in flight. The hilt was wrapped in smooth, exotic leather, fitting perfectly in the hand, as though it had always belonged there.
Batu's voice was steady as he spoke. "Normally, the winner of our Hunting Season Competition would receive a powerful horse or a grand ger almost the size of mine or Altan's." He paused.
"But you are not of Windoria, and such gifts would serve little use on your path. So instead… we offer you this." He extended the dagger.
"This blade is forged from celeste iron, tempered in the cold of the eastern peaks. It bears our mark and our honor. It is yours now—as a token of our loyalty, and a symbol that wherever you go, the Hunters of Windoria stand with you."
Liora accepted the blade with both hands, cradling it as if it were a living thing. The weight was perfect. The balance flawless. But more than that… she felt the warmth of the gesture behind it.
"Thank you, General Batu," she said quietly, then bowed, not just as a formality, but with genuine respect. He returned the gesture with a proud nod.
Elowen stepped forward, her tone brisk and commanding. "Alright, enough ceremony. We've got a long way to go and a warfront that won't wait for our arrival."
The driver climbed up to the reins, and Elowen helped Liora into the carriage before hopping in herself. As the horses began to move, the wind picked up gently—the familiar breath of Windoria, brushing through their hair, tugging softly at their cloaks.
The grass and wildflowers swayed, as though waving farewell. It was a picture of peace and pride, of land and people that had given them more than just rest.
As they crested the edge of the camp, Liora turned back one last time. Altan and Batu still stood where they had been, unmoving, hands clasped behind their backs like sentinels. Watching. Waiting. Hoping.
High Chief Altan and General Batu remained rooted in place, watching the carriage grow smaller in the distance. Once it disappeared entirely beyond the horizon, Altan turned to Batu, his expression resolute.
"You must prepare and train our hunter forces thoroughly," he instructed firmly. "We must uphold our oath to Liora—and honor the legacy of our ancestors."
"Yes, High Chief," Batu replied without hesitation, his voice brimming with determination. "I'll ensure our troops are ready when the time comes."
Liora sat back, the dagger resting on her lap. She traced the crest on its hilt with her thumb, her thoughts quiet but no longer heavy. She remembered the faces she'd seen in Windoria—the laughter of children, the strength of warriors, the wisdom of elders.
Not many memories, but meaningful ones. She leaned against Elowen's shoulder. "Thank you," she murmured. "For what?" Elowen asked, brushing a lock of hair behind Liora's ear. "For being here. For not letting me give up."
Elowen smiled, voice soft. "We're just getting started, you know." Liora nodded. Outside, the road unrolled before them—dusty, uncertain, and full of challenge. But Liora was no longer afraid. The sound of the wheels turning, the clop of hooves against earth… it was the beginning of something new. And behind her, the wind still whispered through the fields.