The courtyard was silent now.
The men had finished their drills and dispersed. The morning mist clung low to the stone tiles, disturbed only by the faint rustle of Keal's bare feet as he stood at the edge of the training circle.
Cain stepped forward, placing something on the ground with a dull clink.
A short wooden staff. Polished. Worn at the ends.
"Pick it up," he said.
Keal crouched, fingertips brushing along the cold stone until they found the weapon. He lifted it slowly, turning it in his hands, feeling its weight.
"Hold it like this." Cain took his wrist—not gently—and shifted his grip. "Tighter. Looser with the back hand."
Keal adjusted.
"Again."
He adjusted again.
Cain let go and stepped back without a word. Then, from the shadows near the wall, he picked up another staff and tapped it once on the ground.
A signal.
Keal heard it.
Cain stood a few paces away, watching. No words. Just observation.
Keal's ears pricked up as a slight shift in the air warned him—Cain was moving.
A soft footstep. Then another.
Cain moved swiftly, closing the gap. Keal's ears burned as he strained to hear the subtle cues.
And then, the strike came—Cain's staff aimed for Keal's side, just quick enough to make him react. Not hard. Not enough to harm. But enough to remind him.
The staff brushed against his ribs. A tap, not a blow.
Keal flinched.
"Too slow," Cain's voice was a cold whisper, but the correction was clear.
Keal tightened his grip on the staff, eyes narrowing as he adjusted his posture. He would get it right. He had to.
Cain circled again, taking a step back. Then another. This time, Keal focused, listening to every shift of air, every subtle creak of Cain's boots against the stone.
Another strike—faster. Cain's movements were nearly imperceptible, but Keal could feel the subtle pressure against the air before the strike landed. He managed to raise the staff in time, deflecting the hit just before it reached his shoulder.
Cain nodded, but there was no satisfaction in his eyes. Just cold calculation.
"Better," he said. "But you're still reacting instead of anticipating. You need to listen for intent. For rhythm. Not just sound."
Keal adjusted again, his muscles aching. He could feel the sweat trickling down his neck, but his grip remained steady. He focused. This time, he waited. Listened.
Cain's movements were silent, ghostlike, but Keal could sense when Cain shifted. When the air grew still for that half-second before the next strike.
The staff came down again, and this time, Keal sidestepped, feeling the rush of air pass by him. His body wasn't as fast as his mind, but the gap was closing.
Cain stepped back again. His voice was quiet but sharp.
"You're listening better. Now, move faster. When you hear it, don't think. Just react."
Keal nodded, feeling the weight of the lesson settle in. He wasn't learning to fight yet. He was learning to survive.
Not by strength, not by power—but by listening.
And Cain was right. This was only the beginning.
The Lesson Continued
The lesson stretched on until Keal's arms trembled and his breaths came short and shallow. Cain never raised his voice. He never repeated himself. He simply struck, corrected, and expected improvement.
And Keal gave it.
Each tap, each near-miss, sharpened something inside him—something beyond instinct. Discipline. Awareness.
When Cain finally lowered his staff, Keal stood drenched in sweat, his hands raw from the wood. But he didn't fall. He didn't cry. He simply adjusted his grip again, ready for more.
Cain studied him in silence for a long moment.
Then turned and walked away.
No praise. No dismissal.
Just absence.
Keal stood alone in the misted courtyard, the short staff still in his hands.
His training had only just begun.
Three Years Later
Keal was eight now.
The mansion hadn't changed—but he had.
What once took effort now came naturally. He moved through the halls like a phantom, avoiding creaks in the wood he couldn't see but had memorized long ago. His hands, once uncertain, now wielded practice weapons with precision born of repetition and pain.
Cain no longer gave daily instruction. He gave challenges. Obstructions. Pressure. And Keal met them all in silence.
But now, the real training would begin.
Not survival.
War.
The Night Before
Keal sat on the edge of his bed, legs dangling, his fingers trailing slowly along the seams of the blanket. It was freshly tucked—Rhea always made it that way. The room was quiet, except for the faint hum of wind pressing against the distant windows.
Then came the footsteps.
Measured. Precise. Instantly recognizable.
Cain.
The door opened with a controlled creak, followed by silence as the man entered. No words. Just presence.
A soft thud reached Keal's ears as something was placed on the table near his bed.
"A gift," Cain said. "Happy birthday."
Keal froze for a second.
A gift?
It was the first time in eight years he'd heard those words from his father's mouth.
He rose and moved cautiously toward the table, fingertips sweeping across its surface until they found the box—smooth wood, cool to the touch, finely crafted. He unlatched it and felt inside.
Cloth. Rough, tightly woven.
A strip.
A blindfold?
But he was already blind.
His fingers paused.
"This is the last night Rhea will be with you," Cain said, his tone flat. "Tomorrow, your real life begins."
Keal didn't ask why. He didn't need to.
Over the years, he'd pieced together enough. From the way people shifted when Cain passed, from the whispers that seeped through walls, from the unspoken rules that blanketed the mansion.
His father was not a man. He was a legend—a ghost whispered of in the underworld.
An assassin.
And Keal was his heir.
"This cloth is not to blind you," Cain said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. "It's a symbol. Of what you'll become."
Keal ran his fingers across the edge of the cloth again. It wasn't meant to hide his blindness. It was to announce it. To own it.
His first gift.
Not a toy. Not a book. But a mark of purpose.
Cain turned, already heading for the door.
Keal sat with the box in his lap, listening as the footsteps faded into silence.
Tomorrow, his life would change.
He didn't know how—but he could feel the shift already settling in the air.
The easy part was over.