'I know I'm in a trial, but this feels too real,' Astel thought as he looked around what seemed to be a small wooden cabin.
Two people—a man and a woman—sat at a table, enjoying breakfast. He didn't recognize them, yet somehow, he knew they were his parents. A familiar, warm feeling of comfort enveloped his body in their presence. It was odd, to feel this way toward strangers, but his body didn't seem to question it. As his stomach grumbled, the confusion melted away.
He slowly walked toward the table. As he approached, the woman—who looked to be around forty—pushed a bowl of soup and a few pieces of bread toward a seat clearly meant for him. She had beautiful dark hair tied into a messy bun and smiled warmly at Astel. Her expression overflowed with love. She wore a simple long skirt and a beige shirt—clothing that looked like something a commoner might wear in a medieval village.
As Astel sat down, the man—his supposed father—looked at him with an expectant expression. He appeared to be a seasoned warrior, with short, slightly graying hair already beginning to thin. His face bore a few wrinkles, but somehow, he looked young and full of vigor. Like the woman, he wore commoner's clothes, but had a few leather guards strapped to his shoulders and forearms.
"What is it?" Astel asked, noticing the way the man kept staring at him.
He ate a spoonful of soup, and at last the man spoke—his voice tinged with excitement.
"You don't remember? You're going to be named a knight-in-training as of today. You've been working so hard every day… it's so nice to see it finally paying off." He leaned back and looked toward the woman. "I hope you won't forget about us when you're in the castle." He laughed and looked back at Astel.
'A knight in training? Castle? What do they mean? What does this have to do with the trial?'
He quickly gathered his thoughts and forced a small smile. "Don't worry. I won't."
It wasn't exactly a lie—but he didn't know these people, even if they treated him like their son. He looked down at his soup and ate slowly. His parents watched him in silence, misreading his melancholy as sadness about leaving home at such a young age.
"You should finish eating. The carriage will be here soon, and you still need to get dressed," the woman said, smiling softly as she stared at Astel. "I'll go prepare some clothes for you in your room."
Now it was just Astel and his father at the table.
'I'll just play the part of a good son—at least until I leave. So I don't break their hearts.'
Even though that was what he told himself, he couldn't help but feel attached to the man sitting beside him. Astel knew this wasn't his real father—he didn't even know the man's name—but the connection felt real. It was as if the man had been his father his entire life.
The same went for the woman. Though his feelings toward her were more complicated—he already had a mother. A real one.
His memories began to blur, the feelings in his heart slowly overriding what he knew to be true. Second by second, the life he lived in the real world faded. It was replaced—restructured—with memories of this family.
The process was slow and almost unnoticeable. Astel had no idea what was happening. By the time he finished the soup, he had already forgotten that this was a trial. Forgotten that there was a world outside this cabin.
"I can't wait to become a knight and save people," he said, beaming with excitement.
"I know," his father replied, standing up to clear the table. "So go and get dressed. The carriage should be here soon."
Astel—no, Riven—sprang up from his chair and ran back to his room. It didn't take long to find a neat stack of clothes waiting for him. Unlike the worn garments around the house, these were finely made.
He wore tight, dark brown pants—almost black—with a belt crafted from unfamiliar leather. His shirt was pale, nearly white, and simple in design, but it fit his body perfectly, accentuating his form while allowing for full range of movement. He threw a few punches and kicks, smiling as he did.
'Wow, these clothes are amazing. And they smell so good.'
After a few more practice movements, he turned and walked back out. The carriage hadn't arrived yet, and he wanted to see his mother one last time before leaving. As he walked down the hallway, he heard soft crying.
Riven slowed his steps and approached the door to her room. He knocked a few times, then opened it.
His mother was sitting on the bed, crying quietly. He walked over and sat beside her, wrapping her in a hug.
"It's okay, Mom. You don't have to cry. I'll come visit as much as I can," he said gently.
She clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder before wiping her tears and speaking. "It's not that. It's just… you're so young. Are you sure you're ready? I just... I remembered your brother. The time when he left home to become a knight…"
She wiped her face again, though her tears didn't stop.
"He was about your age when he left. And then we got the news that he died in battle. He never even had the chance to return home because of the war."
Riven didn't know his brother. He had been too young when the boy left—and the memories of this life weren't fully formed yet. He couldn't share in her grief, but he could do everything in his power to make sure she wouldn't suffer the same loss again.
"Don't worry, Mom. I'll become the greatest hero the world has ever seen."
The warm smile on his face gave her pause. For a moment, the tears stopped. She wanted to believe him.
"Promise me that you'll run if you're in danger," she said softly. "Please, Riven… you have to survive. I can't lose another son."
At the mention of his name, the boy froze.
For a single moment, it felt like he'd heard something horrific—like a cold wind cutting through the warmth. But the feeling passed. Almost immediately, it was forgotten. He hugged her again and whispered:
"I promise."
After she calmed down, they walked outside together.
As Riven opened the final door separating him from the outside world—and the castle—he felt a sudden jolt of nervousness. The door creaked open, letting in the golden light of the sun. It wasn't blinding. It was warm, and calming.
Outside, his father stood next to the carriage, speaking to the driver. When he noticed Riven, he waved and pointed to something in his other hand—a sheathed sword attached to a leather belt.
Riven approached.
His father kneeled in front of him and looked into his eyes as he presented the weapon.
"Listen, Riven. You'll do great."
That name again. It sent a shiver through his spine.
"I prepared a proper sword for you. One that should last you a lifetime if you take good care of it. Don't forget to train. And eat. Oh, and rest—you'll need a lot of it if you want to grow into a proper knight."
He chuckled softly, then added, "Listen to your instructors. Try not to cause too much trouble. And if someone picks on you... don't start a fight unless they put you—or someone you care about—in danger."
He spoke quickly, his words tripping over themselves. Then he took a deep breath and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"What I'm trying to say, Riven, is… we love you. And we know you'll become the greatest hero to ever live."
He smiled brightly—masking the sadness behind his eyes.
"Dad… thank you."
Riven accepted the sword and hugged his father. Then he glanced at his mother.
"You too, Mom. Thank you."
He hugged them both one final time before climbing into the carriage and closing the door behind him. He sat by the window, watching as the house grew smaller and smaller in the distance—his parents waving, tears shimmering in their eyes—as the carriage carried him away.
Toward the castle.
Toward destiny.
Toward something he no longer remembered was a lie.