NATHAN POV
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The clang of steel echoed across the courtyard, sharp and uneven, like a song played by untrained hands. Nathan stood in the center of the training grounds, arms folded behind his back, his raven-black hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. Around him, a dozen young raiders struggled through drills. Blades slipped in sweaty hands. Shields dipped too low. Feet stumbled where precision was demanded.
When the final strike was called, silence fell. The recruits looked to him, eyes hopeful for approval, but Nathan's expression was cut from stone.
"That—" his voice carried through the courtyard, low and edged, "—was pathetic."
A few of the men flinched. One dropped his gaze entirely.
"You fight worse than you did yesterday. Do you think the Temple will forgive sloppy footwork? Do you think Goddess Mei rewards weakness?" His words struck like blows. "No. She devours it. Just as the Temple devours fools."
He let the silence stretch until it pressed against their throats. Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he ordered, "Out. Train until your bones remember what your minds forget."
The recruits scattered. Nathan remained, watching the sun slip higher over the mansion walls, gilding the courtyard stones. He flexed his hand once, feeling the old scars across his knuckles. Every mistake, every weakness, carved into him like reminders. Perfection was not a choice—it was survival.
The messenger found him before noon, breathless, bowing low.
"Master Nathan. Your father requests your presence. Urgently."
Nathan's jaw tightened. His father's summons were rarely casual. With one last glance at the empty training grounds, he turned and strode across the mansion's vast halls.
The chamber was already crowded when he entered. Black Raiders, cloaked in wealth and arrogance, stood around a long table strewn with scrolls and maps. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and the scent of polished steel. His father sat at the head, posture rigid, eyes dark as obsidian.
"Ah, Nathan," his father said, voice carrying both welcome and command. "Join us."
Nathan's gaze swept over the maps—dozens of routes drawn in painstaking detail, all pointing toward the Temple of Eternal Shadows. His stomach knotted.
"We are sending a party into the Temple," his father said. "And you, my son, will lead it. You will claim the Heart of Mei."
Murmurs rippled through the room. Nathan felt the weight of their stares. He had expected this, perhaps dreaded it, yet the certainty in his father's tone still sent a chill through him.
He leaned forward, scanning the maps. Two routes had been marked in red ink, paths that appeared smoother, less tangled in the Temple's shifting labyrinth.
"These?" Nathan asked.
"Confirmed by scouts," one of the older raiders said. "Safer than the rest. If you follow them, you will succeed."
Safer. Not safe, Nathan thought grimly. The Temple devoured kings and beggars alike. What difference did a line on parchment make?
When the others were dismissed, only he and his father remained. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken tension.
"You will bring it back," his father said, rising from his chair. "The Heart of Mei will belong to the Black Raiders. To us."
"And when I return with it?" Nathan asked.
"We will share it, of course."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Share? With you? You mean you'll take it, and I'll watch."
His father's eyes narrowed. "Careful."
"No." Nathan stepped closer, fury burning through him. "I'm not a boy you can order around. I've trained men, bled for this name, and I will not be your pawn."
Steel sang as his father's blade left its sheath. Nathan's came free in the same breath.
The duel was brutal. Sparks flew as black steel met black steel, each strike ringing with years of resentment. Nathan's arm ached, his ribs screamed where his father's blade had cut through his guard, but he did not falter.
"You fight me as though you wish me dead," his father growled.
"Maybe I do," Nathan spat back.
The clash ended in blood—his lip split, his father's forearm gashed. Neither yielded. Both stood panting, blades poised, until finally his father lowered his weapon.
"Stubborn," he muttered. "Like your mother."
Nathan froze. The mention of her was rare, almost forbidden. But his father turned away, signaling the argument was over.
Nathan wiped the blood from his mouth and sheathed his sword. He hated the sting in his chest more than the wound. He hated that his father still had the power to make him feel like a child.
Later, when the sun dipped low, Nathan rode into the city. His wounds throbbed beneath his tunic, but he needed liquor more than bandages. The bustle of the streets pressed around him—vendors shouting, lanterns swaying in the twilight wind.
At a small restaurant, he dismounted, tossing his reins to a servant boy. The smell of roasted meat and spiced wine clung to the air. He strode toward the entrance, black cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
That was when he saw him.
Elisha.
The white-blond misfit was balancing a bucket of water, weaving through the crowd with an air of indifference. Nathan might have ignored him entirely, but fate had other plans. A loose stone caught Elisha's boot, and in the stumble that followed, half the water splashed across Nathan's cloak.
The world went still.
Nathan's eyes snapped to Elisha's. The thief's expression wasn't fear, wasn't apology—it was irritation.
"You'll have to get another bucket," Elisha muttered, brushing past him.
Nathan's jaw clenched. No one dismissed him. No one dared. His hand twitched toward his blade, but he stopped himself. Not here. Not now. He was too tired, too wounded. Still, the sting of the insult burned deeper than the cut on his lip.
He turned away, forcing his pride down with a bitter swallow, but he could not shake the image of Elisha's grin—the audacity of it, the strange defiance in his eyes.
Back at the mansion, Nathan locked himself in his chambers. He laid the maps across his desk, studying the inked lines again and again. Two smooth roads. Two lies. He tried to believe in them. He wanted to believe.
Later, with liquor in hand, he climbed onto the roof. The city sprawled beneath him, lanterns flickering against the dark. He tilted the bottle back, letting the burn distract him from the ache in his ribs.
The map lay across his lap. His fingers traced the roads, but something was wrong. The parchment shifted under his touch. The lines bled, twisted, curled into jagged shapes. For a heartbeat, the whole map looked like a beast's gaping jaws.
Then came the whisper.
"…come closer…"
Nathan froze. The wind stirred his hair, cold against the sweat on his skin. He glanced around—no one. The courtyard below lay empty, cloaked in shadow.
"…your fate is sealed…"
His chest tightened. He slammed the map shut, breath uneven. For the first time that day, his mask cracked—not in front of recruits, not before his father, not even with Elisha's insolence. But here, alone, with only shadows to hear him.
The Temple was already calling.
And it would not be denied.
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