Fourteen Years Later
The wind rustled through the trees as birds scattered from the training yard, their wings catching the gold of the morning sun.
Behind the old stone manor of House Nox, a boy stood in the shadow of his older sister.
Velmuth Nox. Fourteen years old. Second son of Baron Hadren Nox. To most, he appeared nothing more than an average child. Unremarkable in strength, magic, or ambition. No glowing talent. No noble bravado.
Just quiet eyes, a calm posture, and a wooden sword resting loosely in his grip.
Facing him stood Serenya Nox, seventeen and already skilled beyond her years. Her black hair shimmered in the sunlight, and her stance carried a blend of elegance and martial purpose. Her fierce eyes locked onto him with a teasing glint.
"Ready when you are," she said, her grin playful.
"Always am," Velmuth replied softly, his voice steady and unreadable.
A few paces away, their instructor Karl stood with arms crossed. Clad in worn black attire, the grim man wore an expression that suggested years of dulled patience. His gaze swept over them like a tired judge.
"Begin."
Serenya moved first. Her strikes came fast and graceful, like flowing wind. Each swing of her blade sang with precision, honed by countless hours of disciplined practice.
Velmuth parried calmly. Every motion smooth. Every retreat measured. He allowed the rhythm to surround him, reading the flow of movement not only from the tension in her limbs, but from the shift in wind and the subtle beats of her breath. He never pushed, only responded, letting her pace guide the dance.
Then came the sweep.
Her leg caught his. He tumbled to the ground. A perfect fall. Not startled. Not clumsy. Simply natural enough to seem real.
Serenya lowered her weapon in concern. "Vel!"
"I'm fine," he said, brushing dirt from his tunic. A faint smile curved his lips. "Nice move."
Karl scribbled something in his notebook without a word and walked away, unimpressed as always.
From the edge of the yard, a cheerful voice rang out.
"You're really good at losing, you know that?"
Lira Alwen stepped forward, her golden hair bouncing with each stride. She wore light sparring gear and a smirk to match. A noble girl from House Alwen, she had been visiting for weeks, her fiery spirit impossible to ignore.
Velmuth sat up, dusted himself off, and smirked back. "It's a talent."
Lira offered her hand. "If this were a real tournament, I'd beat you before the crowd even blinked."
He took her hand, rising with effortless grace. "And I'd cheer for you sincerely."
She blinked at him. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
Serenya laughed and joined them. "He's not really trying, you know. He just doesn't like showing off."
Lira crossed her arms. "Or maybe he's just a coward."
Velmuth raised a brow, bemused. "I prefer the term peace enthusiast."
She scowled and huffed, though her tone lacked true bite.
"You read all those war epics and ancient duels, but you fight like you're scared of bruising your ego."
Velmuth looked up at the treetops, where leaves whispered with the wind. Somewhere in the quiet of his mind, a thought rose like a distant echo.
Power draws eyes. Silence lets you slip between the seams of the world.
He spoke aloud without turning. "It's not fear. I just don't see the value in applause."
Serenya tilted her head. "Then what do you want?"
Velmuth met her gaze, then Lira's. Then he looked past them, beyond the courtyard, where clouds drifted like thoughts left unspoken.
"To live simply. To smile honestly. To fall when it doesn't matter, and rise only when it does."
Lira stared at him for a long moment. "You're weird."
Velmuth gave a slight bow. "It's my only trait worth noticing."
Serenya reached over and ruffled his hair. "Weird or not, you're still my little brother. That dodging was good, even if the fall was dramatic."
He smiled at her. "Thanks, Serenya."
Karl's voice called from across the field, dry and impatient. "That's enough for today. Lunch in twenty minutes."
As they walked back toward the manor, Lira nudged Velmuth with her elbow.
"Next time, I am beating you."
"I look forward to it," he replied.
But deep within, he already knew the outcome.
He would lose again.
Intentionally. Quietly.
Because hiding strength in plain sight was the greatest illusion of all.
That Night
The moon hung pale above the mist-shrouded forest.
Far from the estate, cloaked in darkness, a lone figure moved along a narrow woodland path in the northern woods.
He wore robes of deep obsidian, shimmering faintly like oil beneath moonlight. A long hood draped over his shoulders. His face was hidden behind a sleek silver mask, expressionless, carved only with a single narrow slit for sight.
The persona he wore had no name. No rank. No family.
Only purpose.
He walked until the path dipped beneath an ancient ridge of stone, where roots tangled and shadows deepened. There, a tunnel waited, carved into the earth like the mouth of some forgotten beast.
Velmuth tilted his head. "A smuggler's den? Or something less civilized."
He stepped inside without hesitation.
The tunnel curved downward, damp and heavy with silence. Faint torchlight flickered along the walls. At its end, a chamber opened wide.
Inside, ten men lounged among crates. The scent of stolen wine and sweat thickened the air. They laughed and drank, their blades resting lazily at their sides.
One man raised a mug. "Who'd have guessed? That merchant was carrying a bloody fortune."
The leader grinned, a burly man with scars across his face. "Ten guards. Not one of them worth their pay. Easy kills."
High above, crouched in the rafters of the earthen ceiling, Velmuth watched in stillness so complete it became absence.
"Thieves. Murderers. No honor. No guilt. Just animals who learned how to hold steel."
Without warning, he dropped.
A blur of shadow landed silently. One man collapsed, throat pierced before sound could form.
"What the hell—!?"
The leader jumped to his feet, grabbing for his blade. "You dare kill one of my men? You want to die?"
"INTRUDER!"
Nine blades were drawn.
Velmuth stepped forward, quiet and calm. "You talk too much."
One man lunged.
Velmuth flicked his hand.
Three small orbs shimmered into existence, black as the void. They floated briefly, then shattered.
Three men vanished.
Not killed.
Erased.
"No... What is that?"
"Dark magic? Is that... even human?"
The remaining six froze. One of them trembled.
"Why are you doing this?"
The leader snarled and stepped forward, his aura blazing. "I don't care what you are. My sword can cut through any magic."
His blade ignited, glowing with power.
He charged.
But as he swung,
His weapon vanished.
Not broken.
Gone.
He gasped, staggered. "What— cough... What was—"
A dark marble embedded in his chest.
He reached up, choking as his body dissolved.
"I… didn't even see..."
Then he was gone.
The five survivors dropped their weapons in a clatter of steel.
"Please... take everything."
"We surrender. We'll return the goods."
"Just let us live."
Velmuth raised one hand.
Five spears of dark energy materialized, cold and sharp, floating in the air.
He pointed a finger.
They fired.
Silence fell once more.
He walked to the crates. Jewelry. Fine fabrics. Alchemical reagents. Scrolls.
"Such value," he murmured. "Stained with blood."
He gathered what mattered and turned to leave, his silver mask catching one last glint of moonlight.
Then he vanished into the night, swallowed by shadow.
No one would know.
No witnesses.
Only understanding.