The house was quiet except for the soft crackling of the fireplace and the distant sound of wind brushing against the trees outside. Lanternlight flickered gently across the walls, casting long shadows through the small living room while Cade stood motionless near the table. The blackened armor rested beside him piece by piece, its scarred steel reflecting dim orange light like fragments of a forgotten life. Lyrica remained near the doorway, uncertain whether she should step closer or give him space. Neither of them truly knew how to begin this conversation.
Cade exhaled slowly before finally breaking the silence. "You should probably sit down," he said quietly, his voice lacking the usual certainty she was used to hearing from him. Lyrica nodded and moved carefully toward the table, though her eyes never left the armor resting beside it. Up close, it looked older than she imagined, worn by years of use rather than crafted for ceremony or display. Scratches carved across the metal told stories she could not yet understand, while faint silver trim still lingered beneath the darkened steel. She realized quickly this was not the armor of some glorious hero from a storybook—it belonged to someone who survived war by enduring it.
Cade noticed the way she stared at the armor and rested a hand gently against the chestplate. "It wasn't always black," he admitted after a long pause. "A long time ago, before people started calling me the Kingslayer, this armor looked completely different." His fingers traced faint silver lines barely visible beneath the scorched steel. "Back then, I was just another soldier trying to survive long enough to matter." There was no pride in his voice when he spoke about those years, only a strange kind of distance, as though he were remembering someone else entirely.
Lyrica tilted her head slightly. "So what happened to it?" she asked softly.
Cade allowed himself the faintest smile. "Dragonfire," he answered.
Her eyes widened immediately.
"Wait… an actual dragon?" she asked with sudden excitement cutting briefly through the tension in the room. Cade chuckled quietly at her reaction before nodding once. He moved toward the armor carefully and lifted the heavy chestplate into the lanternlight, revealing where the blackened steel looked warped along one side. Even after all these years, parts of it still carried subtle burn scars across the metal.
"One of my first campaigns during the war crossed through the northern mountains," Cade explained. "Nobody told us a wounded dragon had nested there after another battle farther east." His expression darkened slightly at the memory, though he kept his tone measured for her sake. "We were young. Stupid. Thought we could survive anything." He paused briefly before shaking his head. "The dragon disagreed."
Lyrica leaned forward slightly, completely absorbed in the story now. "You fought it?" she asked.
"Survived it," Cade corrected gently. "There's a difference."
For the first time since seeing the armor, she smiled faintly.
Cade set the chestplate back down before reaching for the cracked helmet resting near the edge of the table. The moment he lifted it, the atmosphere shifted again. Unlike the rest of the armor, the helmet carried something heavier behind it, something quieter and more personal. One side of the faceplate was fractured deeply near the eye, and part of the metal had caved inward slightly from an impact strong enough to kill most men outright. Lyrica stared at the damage silently while Cade turned the helmet carefully in his hands.
"This happened much later," he said quietly.
She noticed immediately he wasn't going to explain further.
And she didn't push.
That trust between them mattered too much now.
Instead, her attention drifted toward the massive black greatsword leaning against the wall nearby. Even resting still, the weapon felt intimidating somehow, its size and scarred blade carrying an almost unnatural weight to it. Cade noticed where her eyes landed and gave a small sigh before walking over to it. He lifted the sword carefully with practiced ease, though the movement carried none of the violence she had witnessed during the troll attack.
"When I was younger," Cade said, resting the blade across his shoulder, "I thought carrying a sword like this made me look impressive." A faint smirk crossed his face briefly. "Truthfully, I could barely swing the thing properly at first." Lyrica blinked in surprise at that, clearly struggling to imagine her father being inexperienced at anything involving combat. Cade noticed her expression and laughed quietly under his breath.
"You're laughing," she pointed out.
"Because I was terrible," he admitted. "The first time I trained with this sword, I lost my grip and nearly broke my commander's foot." That finally earned an actual laugh from her, soft but genuine, and some of the heaviness inside the room eased slightly. Cade found himself smiling more naturally hearing it. Moments like this reminded him why he fought so hard to protect her innocence in the first place.
He carefully rested the sword back against the wall before reaching beneath the table again. This time he pulled free the chain axe coiled carefully beside several old throwing knives. The chain rattled softly against the wooden floor as he lifted it, and Lyrica's eyes widened immediately at the unusual weapon. Compared to the sword, this felt far more brutal—more unpredictable.
"That thing looks terrifying," she admitted.
"It usually was," Cade answered honestly.
He loosened part of the chain carefully, allowing the axe head to swing lightly from side to side. Even now the weapon looked dangerous in his hands, perfectly balanced despite its savage appearance. Lyrica could suddenly picture him fighting with it far too clearly, which sent an uneasy chill down her spine. Cade noticed the shift in her expression almost immediately and slowly lowered the weapon.
"I only started using this later in the war," he explained quietly. "Battles became… messier." His eyes drifted briefly toward the floor before he continued. "People stopped fighting honorably after a while. Survival mattered more than appearances." The way he said it carried deeper meaning beneath the surface, but once again he stopped himself before the curtain opened too far.
Lyrica stayed quiet for several moments before finally speaking again.
"You really were somebody else back then," she whispered.
Cade froze slightly at the words.
Not because they were cruel. Because they were true.
Slowly, he set the axe back down before sitting across from her at the table. The lanternlight flickered across his tired face while silence settled gently between them again. He looked older tonight somehow, not physically, but emotionally—as though years he kept buried had suddenly resurfaced all at once.
"I had to become somebody else," he admitted quietly. "The war changed people. Not just me. Everyone." He folded his hands together slowly, staring at the old armor beside him. "When I first wore this armor, I thought being a knight meant protecting people and doing what was right. Simple things. Good things." A faint sadness touched his voice. "Then the war kept going… and going… and eventually surviving became more important than ideals."
Lyrica listened carefully, her golden eyes fixed on him.
"But you still protected people," she said softly.
Cade looked at her for a long moment before answering.
"I tried."
The simplicity of that response hurt more than any detailed explanation could have.
For a while the two of them simply sat there together surrounded by pieces of a life Cade spent years hiding away. Yet despite everything she had seen tonight—the weapons, the scars, the armor, the hints of violence buried beneath his stories—Lyrica did not look afraid of him. If anything, she looked saddened by how long he carried all of it alone.
"You don't have to tell me everything right now," she said gently.
Cade looked genuinely surprised by that.
Lyrica smiled faintly before continuing. "I know there are things that still hurt you." Her eyes drifted toward the cracked helmet resting on the table. "But thank you for showing me this much." There was no accusation in her voice, only understanding. "I'd rather know pieces of the real you than nothing at all."
Something in Cade's chest tightened painfully at those words.
For years he convinced himself that if Lyrica ever saw the truth about who he used to be, she would fear him the same way the world once had. But sitting here now, watching her look at him not with fear but compassion, he realized trust did not require complete honesty all at once. It only required willingness. A willingness to stop hiding behind silence forever.
Cade reached across the table slowly and rested his hand over hers.
"I'll tell you more someday," he promised quietly.
And for the first time in years, he truly meant it.