Out of nowhere, death showed up not with insight, but shock. It wasn't met with sorrow or second thoughts. Instead of clarity, there was chaos - headlights swirled like mad, steel screamed. Meaning? That had no chance to arrive. What existed simply vanished, replaced by empty silence. Even shadow fled. For an instant, nothing remained at all.
Sensations came back, yet not gentle - they arrived battered, folded into agony so intense it cracked open thinking cold.
Heat exploded beneath his ribs, like flames flooding his breath, making every urge to draw air fight its way past frozen muscles - then sudden inhalation arrived thick and wet, dragging heat along, and out came a strangled cry, harsh beyond what any voice should ever utter.
Sound came after awareness.
A hum unlike cold machinery hums - no whistle of roads far off - just breath stacked on top of pause, each one stretched too thin, words pushed through gritted teeth, and then, cut through, a woman's sob, sharp as truth delivered without warning.
He saw them come wide.
Now stone takes the place of steel.
Fire took over where electricity once ruled.
Overhead, thick walls rose unevenly, battered by time and smoke stains, while dark banners dangled slow beneath metal holders. A silver form on every banner caught light - a king's crown split by a sword tip - a symbol somehow off, even before words it.
Fear washed through me fast.
He struggled to shift his body.
He just sat there, unable to move.
It started without warning, creeping into every part of her like a cold wind. Each breath brought more awareness - of ropes tugging at wrists too fragile to resist. The hands, numb and still, lay trapped beneath layers of rough weave that dragged across tender flesh. Every move felt stolen, muffled before it could begin. Weight pressed down, not just from the knots but from what lay beneath them: fear waking slowly, unable to escape.
He sat in custody right then.
Softly held close to a pulsing warmth.
A baby's tiny form.
That moment hit like a punch, not slowly building but crashing - two paths slamming together where they shouldn't. One lived in cities, streets wet under bright lights; the other walked ancient paths worn smooth by time. Then the sound of scraping metal echoed through quiet fields. A vehicle slipped on wet asphalt, careened wildly. Suddenly everything felt heavy, layered: modern life rubbing against rituals older than memory.
Her hands held him close when she stood there breathing slow. Pale flesh showed under skin-tight clothes, tired lines etched deep across cheeks. Water-soaked strands stuck to her shoulder, proof of mornings already gone. What struck hardest wasn't how she looked - it was the face set in stone, empty of calm. Fear lived there full tilt, raw and unhidden, like watching seconds tick down instead of healing begin.
"A boy," someone else called out - quiet, matter-of-fact, like this was the hundredth time
Another.
That idea just landed in the space - quiet, final.
Her arms clamped close around the small form inside her, squeezing hard through the woven wrap, as if holding tighter might keep harm at bay.
"He's alive," she whispered, her voice cracking under the strain of holding herself together. "Please."
No one replied when she called.
Then out walks a gray-pated figure, and suddenly the room holds its breath - not gently, but like being tugged by unseen hands, so sharp is the hush that you wonder if he taught them all, back then, that sound equals disrespect.
Straight he held himself, though years showed, yet power radiated from him, clear and strong, gaze frigid but exact, moving across faces - hers first, then the infant's - not fueled by rage or cold intent, but a calm weighing that carried deeper pain than fury ever could.
"Head count?" came his question.
After a moment, an answer came through. "Seven."
He gave a small nod, more like checking off a list than recognizing two real people standing there.
"Crowded courts mark this era's trials."
Her frame froze, air trapped deep inside her torso. "Father," she whispered, words cracking under strain, "he is nothing but a boy."
He stared at the baby, his eyes holding still past usual, where - suddenly, without warning - everything made sense in a chilling way.
His actions carried no trace of kindness or compassion.
Still, no harm drove it.
"They all are," he replied calmly.
Then came silence - heavy, like wet earth covering your head - the sort that holds every breath hostage.
He paused, speaking now in that way people do when they want their words to last. This group, he said, follows just one condition.
Quiet filled the room.
He spoke like stone: destroy your own kind or they will destroy you.
Outrage never followed. Shock didn't echo through the air. Silence filled every room instead - deep, almost tired, like people had heard it all before, too many times to count.
She broke there, falling apart with sobs while holding the little one tight, body soaked by tears as if stopping time could happen right now.
He faced the wall again, done speaking before anyone replied. "Raise them," came his voice flat against stone, "teach them. Arm them."
He stood still just behind the door, the flame from the torch making his shape stretch out thin and curved on the cold rock beneath. Its edge licked at the woman's toes, curling like something that couldn't quite reach.
He paused, then said, "When that hour arrives, only the best remain."
Now inside, the door shut.
That noise kept ringing, way past when it had any right to.
The baby stayed quiet.
Buried under skin so thin, he stood - not alive twice but caught between lives - in a place built not for growing but for forging blades, where hope might get you killed, silence could kill faster than pain, and making it through meant offering more than courage.
He'd need to understand taking out his own kin.