A few hours had passed in the quiet little cottage on the outskirts of the village. The afternoon sun filtered gently through the paper windows, casting soft, golden patterns on the floor. Outside, the wind rustled the tall grass, carrying the faint scent of lilies that grew behind the house.
Inside, peace—true, tender peace—had settled for the first time in years.
Naze rested with his back against the wall, legs stretched before him. His once-war-hardened body seemed strangely at ease now. Nymia lay with her head resting on his lap, her breathing calm and rhythmic, her fingers tracing idle circles on his rough palms. Their daughters, Ouale and Ouake, sat nearby, giggling softly as they braided each other's hair, whispering and occasionally glancing over at their parents with quiet smiles.
It was a picture of serenity—a fragile one, held together by the warmth of reunion.
For Nymia, the moment felt almost dreamlike. Each heartbeat reminded her that this wasn't a dream, that the man whose grave she had wept before was alive, real, and within reach.
Her fingers lingered on his hands, feeling the callouses and ridges along his palms. They told stories—stories of survival, bloodshed, and pain. These were not the hands of the young swordsman she had once fallen in love with, but of a man who had faced storms and somehow found his way back to her.
And yet, even now, with the blindfold covering his eyes, he was more present and foresighted than any sighted man she had ever known. He could sense everything—the pulse of the wind outside, the flicker of a candle's flame, even the soft shift in her breathing when her emotions swelled. His perception was beyond human.
It was said that the Blind Swordsman could cut down a fly mid-flight just by sensing the rhythm of its wings. And now, she could see why.
Nymia smiled faintly, her thumb brushing against his knuckles. "You've changed," she whispered. "But your warmth… it's the same."
Naze tilted his head slightly, his voice low, almost hesitant. "You've suffered much because of me."
"Don't say that." Her tone was gentle but firm. "We survived. And that's enough." her smile and carefree attitude could light up a home. She was truly beautiful. The little dimple, her enthralling grin was enhanced by that one smile.
She paused, glancing at their daughters. "They've grown strong. I tried to raise them with what little I had. The martial arts school has been kind. The principal even gave them a stipend to keep studying. Without that… I don't know what I would've done."
Naze nodded slowly. "The school… they helped you."
"Yes. And the money that came every few months," she continued, her eyes narrowing slightly as if piecing together a memory. "I always wondered who it came from. It helped us pay our debts, fix the roof, even buy food when winter came early." as she spoke the gratitude she felt grew deeper. Without that money it would have been hell for her and the girls.
Naze's lips twitched into a faint smile. "It was never meant to be known. I only wanted you to live comfortably."
Her hand trembled slightly as she covered his. "You don't know what that means to me, Naze. To us."
For a moment, the silence returned, thick with emotion. The girls, still playing beside them, glanced over curiously— sensing that something heavy yet beautiful hung between their parents.
Then Naze broke the silence. His voice was calm, but it carried a quiet authority that made all three of them turn to listen.
"I want you all to come with me," he said.
The laughter of the girls stopped instantly. Nymia lifted her head slightly, frowning. "What… what do you mean?"
"The girls don't need to go to the martial arts school anymore," Naze continued, his tone unwavering. "I will train them personally."
A heavy stillness filled the room. Even the sound of the wind seemed to vanish.
Nymia's eyes widened. "Train them? But Naze, they're just children. Their lives—"
"—will be their own," he interrupted softly. "But they carry my blood, Nymia. The world will not be kind to them once it learns who their father truly is. They must be prepared—not as students, but as warriors."
The girls exchanged uncertain glances, their earlier joy fading into quiet shock.
Ouake spoke first, her small voice trembling. "But Daddy… we love the school. Our friends are there."
"I know," Naze replied, his tone calm yet unyielding. "But friends will not protect you from blades. Nor from the shadows that follow our name. Still…"—his lips curved faintly, the ghost of a smile—"…I will make arrangements so that you can still meet them, and have new ones. You will not live in isolation. Only in safety."
The twins exchanged glances, still uneasy, but his voice—low, steady, commanding—made them listen.
Nymia's hand reached for his arm, her fingers tightening as she searched his face, her eyes wide beneath the soft flicker of the lamp. "Naze… what are you saying? What danger?"
He turned his head slightly, listening to something only he could hear—the sigh of the wind, the quiet hum of the night. Then, with quiet weight, he answered, "If I hadn't revealed myself, I could have kept you all under the veil of ignorance and guarded you from afar. But now…"—his words slowed, heavy with meaning—"…now that I have been seen with you, the veil is gone. I cannot leave you to face the eyes that will follow."
His voice lowered, carrying the steel of a man who had seen too many wars. "A storm is coming. I can feel it in the wind… in the silence that hangs over the emperor's palace. When it breaks, this place—this peace—will not hold."
The room fell utterly still. Even the fire's crackle seemed to hush in reverence of his words.
Nymia's chest rose and fell, her voice quivering, anger and fear laced together. "So you didn't want to show up, is that it?"
Naze turned to her, his blindfold catching the faint glint of lamplight. He didn't flinch at her tone. Instead, he leaned closer, his presence both powerful and gentle. "Nymia," he began softly, "you know I would turn the world upside down for you. Every step I take is for that reason."
Her lips parted, but no words came.
He continued, his tone deepening with emotion, "When I stayed away, it wasn't because I had forgotten you. It was because I didn't want to bring my blood-soaked shadow into your light. I live by the sword, and that means death follows wherever I go. I am the emperor's blade—his shield—and those who would harm him would come for me through those I love. If our bond becomes known… if anyone learns that you are mine… you would be at their mercy."
His words trailed off, replaced by silence thick with longing and dread.
Nymia's defiance melted as her eyes glistened. She reached for him suddenly, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face into his chest. "You fool," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You always carry everything alone."
Naze smiled faintly, resting his chin on her head, breathing in her familiar scent—the scent of the home he had thought lost forever. "And I always will," he murmured, "if it means you live."
For the first time in years, Nymia felt fear—not the fear of losing him, but of the shadow that came with his return. Because deep within, she could sense it too—the shift in the air, the faint vibration that preceded chaos.
Outside, the last light of the day bled into crimson. The world beyond their little cottage was already stirring with whispers—rumours of disappearances, of unrest, of unseen hands moving in the empire's dark corners.
As the evening deepened, Nymia held him tighter, unwilling to let go, while he stared silently toward the horizon beneath his blindfold.
And she realized something chilling:
The Blind Swordsman had not returned home merely for peace.
He had come home to prepare for war.