The Drills Inn always smelled like warmth.Not the kind from fireplaces or hot stew, but the kind that seeped into wood after years of footsteps, laughter, spilled drinks, and overturned chairs. The walls carried marks left by mercenaries and travelers—half memory, half warning. Some nights the place was quiet. Other nights it buzzed with impossible stories and wounds too fresh to joke about.But every night, the inn was home.Miss Sarah wiped down a table with brisk, practiced motions, humming a tune older than the city itself. Her gray-streaked hair sat in a bun that had survived two bar fights, a runaway Blessed with poor control, and the Fangs' last five celebrations. She was unbreakable in all the ways that mattered.A soft coo pulled her attention.In a wide wooden basket padded with cloth lay the strange child Sonny had carried out of Beastland Forest three weeks ago.Silver-blue eyes blinked up at her—far too aware for a baby, luminous even in dim light."Well now," Sarah murmured, leaning closer, "you're awake again, little one. Don't tell me you're hungry—Sonny said he fed you earlier."The baby stared at her with quiet, unsettling focus.Sarah sighed. "Fine. Maybe a little hungry."She scooped him up with steady arms. His jade-scaled blanket whispered as it shifted—utterly out of place among her worn fabrics but strangely fitting him. His skin was bronze and warm, his dark curls already trying to fall into his eyes.As she held him, his breathing synced with hers."You're an odd one," she whispered. "But you're sweet. And you're safe now."The inn's door slammed open.Sarah didn't flinch—flinching just made mercenaries feel too powerful. Instead, she adjusted the baby on her hip and called, "Boots off unless you want me beating you with them!"Sonny stepped in, carrying a sack on one shoulder and exhaustion on the other. His dark hair stuck out in too many directions. His boots were covered in mud and Monari grime that had no business being indoors. A faint warmth clung to his hands—Solara's fire blessing still lingering under his skin."Sorry, Sarah," he said, kicking his boots off. "Long day.""Long week," she corrected. "And you're dripping on my floor.""Monari blood doesn't drip," Sonny argued. "It… uh—""Turns into lemon-scented polish?" Sarah offered.Sonny rubbed the back of his neck. "Close enough."The baby reached for him immediately.Sonny's tired expression softened. "Hey, little guy." He took the child into his arms. "You behaving?""He doesn't misbehave," Sarah said. "He just keeps everyone on their toes."Sonny chuckled. "Yeah… I can tell."He didn't sound bothered. If anything, he sounded proud."We need a name for him," Vince announced as he ducked under the doorframe, Vice right behind him. Both twins looked exhausted from training—sharp, restless energy radiating from their Blood Hunter frames.Vice collapsed into a chair. "Yeah, he deserves a real name."Vince nodded. "Can't call him 'kid' forever. What if he grows up taller than us? That's embarrassing.""You mean when," Vice corrected.Sonny laughed. "Both of you hush. I haven't even considered names yet."He looked into the baby's eyes.The boy stared back with quiet, unsettling calm. No babbling, no squirming. Just studying him with silver-blue clarity, curls falling over his forehead."You're a mystery," Sonny murmured."Orin," Sarah said.Sonny turned. "Hmm?""His name," she repeated. "Orin."The inn stilled a little.Vince frowned. "It's kinda soft."Vice elbowed him. "It sounds heroic."Sonny smiled faintly. "Why Orin?"Sarah shrugged. "Someone I cared for long ago. Stubborn. Loyal. Wanted to protect everyone. The name fits him."Sonny looked at the child."Orin," he said quietly.The baby blinked once, as if agreeing."Orin it is."––––––Years passed.Slow, then fast.Orin grew into the inn like he was meant for it. Bronze-skinned, curly-haired, sharp-eyed. He listened more than he spoke and watched more than he played. Other kids thought he was strange, like he was older on the inside.At four, he carried cups to tables without spilling.At six, he could tell when customers were lying.At seven, he outran Vince in a street chase.Vince blamed his boots.Vice reminded him he wasn't wearing any.Lisa smirked and said, "Maybe don't challenge the kid next time."Each year, Orin grew stronger, faster, and more aware.And each year, the Fangs became more protective—not afraid, not suspicious, just careful with a boy who was clearly built for something unusual.––––––One night, Sonny returned from a mission with a cut across his ribs. Orin—now eight—rushed to him immediately."Sonny! You're hurt!""It's just a scratch," Sonny insisted."It's bleeding.""Barely."Orin frowned, curls bouncing. "I could've helped."Lisa paused mid-step. Her magnetism blessing caused her metal-whip to tremble until she pressed her hand against it. "Orin… the things we fight out there aren't lessons. They're real. And messy. And unpredictable."Orin crossed his arms. "I want to learn.""You will," Sonny said. "Just… not yet.""What does 'yet' mean?"Sonny sighed. "It means you're still young."Orin's frown deepened. "You don't think I can do it, do you?"Vince opened his mouth—but Vice nudged him quickly, shaking his head.Sarah stepped in. "Come help me bandage him, Orin."Orin helped quietly, hands gentle. Years of watching their injuries made him precise.While he wrapped Sonny's ribs, he asked: "Why don't you take me with you?"Sonny hesitated—not scared of him, not hiding anything dangerous—just choosing his words."Because you're special," Sonny said simply. "And you deserve more time to grow before you start swinging at monsters.""Special how?"Sonny ruffled his curls. "In all the good ways."Orin accepted it.He trusted them.––––––At twelve, Orin's instincts sharpened in ways impossible to ignore.He dodged things before they happened.He sensed footsteps seconds before they reached the door.He moved like someone older, stronger, more aware.One night, Vice watched Orin dodge a bottle thrown by a drunk mercenary—before the bottle even left the man's grip.Vice whispered to Sonny, "That kid's something else."Sonny smiled slightly. "Yeah. He's going to outshine all of us."No fear.No tension.Just quiet awe.––––––At fifteen, Orin's body strengthened even more. His speed rivaled the younger mercenaries. His awareness sharpened enough that Sarah started saying he had "Lunara's gift for noticing everything."But still—no missions."No," Lisa said gently. "It's dangerous.""It's training, not punishment," Vince added."You're strong," Sonny told him, "but you're still growing."Orin didn't argue—at first.But every time they left without him, something inside him tightened. His instincts pulled toward the forest, toward action, toward something he didn't understand.Sometimes he woke gripping his bedpost too tightly.Sometimes he woke starving for… something.Not food.Not drink.Just something he didn't have.He never told them.Not because he feared their reaction—but because he didn't want them to worry.––––––By seventeen, Orin had grown into a young man built from quiet work and sharpened instincts. His bronze skin caught light beautifully, his curls refused to calm, and his presence carried a heaviness that made strangers step around him without realizing why.He trained every morning.He listened to every story.He watched every injury come through the inn door.And every time the Fangs walked out for a mission without him, he felt a spark inside him flare hotter.He loved them.He trusted them.He wanted to stand with them.But every time he asked for a chance…"Not yet.""You're strong, but be patient.""You're impressive, but youth is youth.""You'll get your turn."Orin lay awake many nights repeating their words in his head.He wasn't angry.He wasn't resentful.Just hungry to prove himself.The Fangs didn't fear him.They believed in him.They were simply waiting for him to reach the moment when they could believe he was ready.Orin wasn't sure when that moment would come...but he knew it was getting closer.
