Blood of the Forgotten Gods

The Streets of Ithos

The stone streets of Ithos buzzed with a sense of routine that morning, but for Dantalian, it all felt different. Every corner they turned, every familiar face they passed, reminded him that this was no ordinary day. His graduation from the Peasants' Militant School marked a turning point, not just for him, but for all those like him—lowborn boys with little chance of a future beyond the grind of daily life.

Walking alongside Gareth, Dan took in the sights and sounds of his city, though today, everything seemed a little sharper, a little more vibrant. The familiar smells of baking bread, roasting meat, and the tang of brine from the nearby harbor filled the air. Ithos was alive in its own way, a city with layers, like a grand tapestry woven through centuries of both prosperity and decay.

Ithos had been built in the shadow of Aelorian, the capital of Elyndor, and once, it had been just as grand. Now, though, the city was a patchwork of wealth and ruin. In the upper districts, where the nobles lived behind high walls, Ithos still gleamed with ancient splendor. Marble columns, towering spires, and grand plazas echoed the city's former glory. But down here, in the lower city, the grandeur had faded long ago. The streets were narrow, cobbled together from mismatched stones, and the buildings sagged under the weight of time. Still, this was Dan's world—where life was rough, but it was real.

As they approached the main square, Gareth elbowed Dan lightly, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Look at 'em," Gareth said, nodding toward a cluster of young men gathered at the edge of the square. "You'd think they're off to join the nobles' ranks the way they're puffing up their chests."

Dan chuckled. The boys from his school, all in the same scratchy brown tunics with the kingdom's crest poorly stitched on, stood in small groups, talking and laughing with their families. Some were sparring with wooden swords, making a show of it for the younger kids who watched in awe. Despite their rough clothes and calloused hands, today was the closest many of them would get to feeling important.

Dan spotted Willem, a large, broad-shouldered boy who had always fancied himself better than the rest. He was already surrounded by a gaggle of his followers, his loud voice carrying across the square.

"After today," Willem boasted, "it's all gonna change. My father says I might even get posted to the Iron Legion. They take only the toughest men, and soon, I'll be one of 'em."

Dan rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. He had learned early on not to cross boys like Willem. Let them have their delusions. The truth was, they'd all be lucky if they were assigned to anything more than border patrols or grain convoys—the sort of postings that kept you out of sight and out of mind. The nobles didn't need lowborn grunts near the capital, especially not ones who might start thinking too highly of themselves.

"Let him dream," Gareth said, smirking. "He'll be just another militant like the rest of us by sunset."

Dan smiled faintly, though a part of him couldn't help but think about the bigger picture. Even on a day like this, the divide between the lowborn and those above them was as clear as ever. The militants, the ones who graduated from schools like theirs, were cannon fodder, expendable in every way. Their lives meant little beyond their duty to the kingdom. And yet, for the nobles—those with magic in their bloodlines, those blessed by the gods—the world was vastly different.

As they passed the bustling market, the contrast between worlds became even clearer. In the lower districts, vendors sold rough-hewn goods—dented pots, faded cloth, and stale bread. Peasants haggled over every copper coin, desperate to make their meager earnings stretch. But in the distance, through the towering iron gates that separated the upper city from the lower, Dan could see the white stone walls of the noble quarter. There, it was said, the streets were clean, the air smelled of perfume, and gold flowed as freely as water. It was a world Dan could never imagine being part of, no matter how hard he tried.

But that was Ithos: a city of two faces.

"Come on," Gareth said, tugging at Dan's sleeve. "Let's get closer to the main square. I want a good spot to see the Captain when he gives his speech."

The main square was a grand open space surrounded by tall stone buildings, each etched with fading carvings of ancient battles and long-forgotten gods. At its center stood the Statue of Eldros, the kingdom's most famous king, sword raised in victory, his face set in an eternal scowl. Around the statue, soldiers of the King's Guard were already gathering, their polished armor glinting in the sun. Unlike the brown tunics of the new militants, these men wore gleaming silver breastplates adorned with blue and gold—colors of the kingdom. They stood tall, their backs straight, their hands resting easily on the pommels of their swords. These were men of honor, soldiers who had earned their place among the elite.

As Dan and Gareth made their way closer, Dan felt a pang of envy. The King's Guard were respected. They lived in fine barracks, ate well, and were treated with deference even by the nobles. For boys like Dan, though, that kind of life was a distant dream. Militants weren't soldiers—they were tools.

Still, today was a day of celebration. For the first time in his life, Dan felt like he had a real chance at something. He might never rise to the level of the King's Guard, but at least he wasn't stuck in the slums. Not yet.

The square was filling up with families now—parents with proud but tired faces, children running excitedly between the legs of the milling crowd. It was a rare occasion for joy in the lower city, and Dan could feel the anticipation building in the air.

As they waited for the ceremony to start, Gareth nudged him again.

"Think we'll get posted to the same unit?" Gareth asked, a note of real hope in his voice. "Maybe we'll get to see some action. Can't be worse than training, right?"

Dan smirked. "Depends on where we're sent. If it's border duty, we'll be lucky to even see a fight. And if we do, it'll probably be against bandits."

Gareth made a face. "Bandits, eh? I was hoping for something more... heroic."

Dan was about to respond when a hush fell over the square. The Captain of the Guard, Captain Serik, had arrived. A tall, imposing man with a long scar across his cheek, Captain Serik was a legend in Ithos. His silver armor gleamed in the sunlight, and the blue cape on his back fluttered slightly in the breeze as he stepped up to the platform in front of the statue of Eldros.

He looked out over the crowd, his eyes hard as steel.

"Militants," he began, his voice carrying across the square, "you stand today at the edge of a new life. A life of service, of duty, and of sacrifice."

His words were crisp, practiced, and commanding. Dan felt a chill run down his spine.

"You are the shield of this kingdom," Captain Serik continued. "You may be lowborn, but you have been given the honor of protecting Elyndor. Make no mistake—your lives will be hard. You will face danger, and many of you will not return from the places you are sent. But know this: your service is invaluable to the kingdom. Without men like you, Elyndor would fall."

There was a pause as the Captain's words sank in. Dan could feel the weight of them pressing down on him. They were being sent out as fodder, but at least they were being acknowledged. In a way, that was more than most lowborns ever got.

The Captain finished his speech with a salute, and the crowd erupted into applause. Dan looked around, seeing the pride in the eyes of his fellow graduates, and even in the faces of the spectators. For now, at least, they were heroes in the eyes of the people.

But deep down, Dan knew that today was only the beginning. The real challenge lay ahead.