The air in the training hall was cold enough to nip at the skin, a faint draft slipping in from the high windows. Shadows pooled in the corners, deep and heavy, as though the room itself conspired to hide what happened inside. The smell was a strange mixture—aged wood, sweat from generations of cadets, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel.
Master Orven stood in the center, leaning lightly on an ebony cane worn smooth by years of use. His robe was old, the fabric fraying along the sleeves, its once-deep color faded to a tired charcoal. A faint scent of oiled metal clung to him, mingling with something earthier, like old leather left in the rain. At first glance, he looked slow, even frail—like a man one good gust of wind might topple.
But then you met his eyes.
Cold, sharp, and unsettlingly alive, they were the kind of eyes that didn't just see you—they weighed you. Every movement, every twitch of muscle, every shift of breath was noted and filed away.
"Today," Orven began, his voice low yet effortlessly filling the space, "you learn the first truth of the Shadow Wing." His words had the precision of a blade edge. "Killing is not about strength. It is about ending the fight before the other bastard even knows it started."
He didn't wait for questions. Didn't ask if they understood.
Without warning, he moved.
One moment, he was in front of them, still and old; the next, there was only a blur. His cane swept out—not to bludgeon, but to touch. The tip pressed with eerie gentleness against the throat of a sandy-haired boy polishing his throwing knives in the corner.
The boy froze. His eyes went wide, chest heaving once before he realized what had happened.
None of them had seen Orven cross the distance. Not a shuffle, not a single betraying footstep. It was as if the air itself had carried him forward.
"That," Orven said flatly, "is a kill. You didn't see me. You didn't hear me. But in my mind…" He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering to a whisper. "…your heartbeat just stopped."
He turned away, tapping the cane against the floor with a rhythm that echoed in the stillness. "You will learn to do the same. Your weapon does not matter—a dagger, a garrote, your bare hands. What matters is certainty. One strike. One chance. No hesitation."
He gestured toward the far wall, where a row of humanoid dummies stood in the dim light. Each bore a strip of white cloth tied at its throat, and a small bronze bell hanging at its chest. "Your task is simple," he said. "Start from those shadows. Reach your dummy. Cut the cloth before it turns to face you. If it 'sees' you…" He rapped the bell of the nearest dummy with his cane, making it ring with a sharp metallic note. "…you're dead."
The tall boy went first, a wiry figure with a hunter's build. He drew his dagger and crouched low, shoulders hunched like a predator preparing to pounce. His breath came fast—too fast—and the faint squeak of leather echoed as he stepped forward.
Two steps in, the dummy turned with a creak of its hidden mechanism. The boy froze, then lunged desperately. The bell chimed a mocking, clear tone before he could even raise his blade.
"Dead," Orven said, not even glancing up from where he adjusted his sleeve.
Next came a dark-haired girl with sharp cheekbones and eyes like flint. She took a wider path, gliding along the edge of the wall. Her approach was slower, more deliberate. For a moment, it seemed she might succeed—until she misjudged the final step. In her eagerness, she rushed the cut, slicing the cloth just as the dummy's head swiveled toward her. The bell rang out, its sound oddly final.
Another corpse.
One by one, the cadets tried their luck. A stocky youth whose heavy boots betrayed him before he got close. A nervous boy who gripped his dagger so tightly his knuckles went white, only to fumble it mid-strike. Even the ones with decent footwork failed—missing their mark by an inch, hitting the wrong spot, or striking too soon.
With each failure, Orven's verdict was the same, cold and unchanging: "Dead."
Eleres's Turn
When his name was called, Eleres stepped into the shadows, the weight of every gaze on his back.
He took a slow breath, forcing his heartbeat into a steady rhythm. The others had looked at the dummies like opponents to be fought head-on. He made himself see something else: not an enemy, but prey. An animal in a snare, seconds from the end if he chose the right moment.
He shifted his weight forward.
The floor beneath him was old, the boards betraying faint whispers if stepped on wrong. He let his toes find the quiet spots first, easing his heel down like a feather settling on water. His body angled just enough to blend with the shadow, letting the dim light wrap around him.
Halfway across, the dummy began its slow, mechanical turn. Eleres didn't stop. He let his movement flow into a sidestep, sliding along the arc of the turn so its wooden gaze passed over empty air.
Three more breaths.
He was close enough now to see the frayed edge of the white cloth, to smell the faint tang of oiled rope on the bell's string.
The dagger flashed once—swift, silent.
The cloth parted like silk, falling without a sound. The bell swayed but stayed silent.
Eleres stepped back immediately, letting the shadows take him again before the dummy's head completed its turn.
For a moment, no one spoke. Even the usual shifting and muttering in the ranks was gone. Orven's one good eye fixed on Eleres like a hawk on its prey.
"Not perfect," the old man said at last, his tone neither warm nor cruel. "Your foot brushed the floor too heavy once. But you lived. And more importantly…"
He jabbed his cane toward the fallen strip of cloth. "…so did your kill."
The words carried a weight that hung in the air. A few of the other cadets glanced at Eleres differently now—not with friendship, but with something sharper. Respect, perhaps, or the first flicker of rivalry.
Eleres simply nodded, slipping the dagger back into its sheath. But inside, a small, unfamiliar thrill stirred—like a lock clicking open somewhere deep within.