Kalen was sitting by the window of the old Lionheart house. The windowsill was dusty, as if even the servants had forgotten that anyone might appear here. Outside the window, it was raining steadily, but the magical veil prevented any drops from touching the glass—everything rolled down, as if repelled by an invisible barrier. It was irritating.
Behind him, in the half-light, stood Ward and Tirk, one a shadow against the wall, the other a black web of sharp claws in a fighting stance. They were silent. Kalen was silent. The air seemed to have frozen.
He hadn't slept in three nights.
"Calm down," Ward's voice cut through the silence, heavy and confident. "You won't be able to keep your mind if you continue."
"They would have taken this path themselves," said Tyrk quietly. "But you must not burn with them."
Kallen chuckled. Barely audible, almost silent.
"I'm not burning. I'm already ash," he breathed. "I'm just walking around like I'm whole."
The house was empty. Those who had previously greeted him with polite detachment now looked at him with concern and... pity. Even his father, Velmut Lionheart, was not the same as before. He did not raise his voice. He did not pressure him. He did not even order him. This meant that something was wrong.
Kalen knew: they knew. Some of them knew who had killed Laer and Veren.
But no one spoke.
He ate with the others. In silence. Spoonful after spoonful. His throat clenched as if the food turned to glass. Norea, the youngest of the sisters, tried to speak several times, but Kalen did not respond. Celia looked at him as if he were a stranger.
It's like looking at a dead person who has risen from the grave.
On the third evening, there was an outbreak.
"You're acting like a child," said Velmut, standing by the fireplace. "Not every blow requires revenge."
"Not every father is worthy of the name," Kalen replied. "Two of my brothers are dead. And you drink wine."
"Do you think I don't suffer?"
"I think you've been hiding it behind the walls you've built for too long," Kallen's eyes were shadowed, and his back twitched slightly as his tattoo pulsed.
Ward stood up from the corner. Tirk moved forward slightly. The house smelled of magic.
"Stop it," Ward's voice sounded like a verdict.
Kalen stopped. He smiled. It hurt.
— Okay. I won't. Bye.
He turned and left.
No one dared to stop him.
That night, he went down to the old armory. There was only dust, an old chain mail shirt, and a couple of broken practice swords. He found what he was looking for: a practice sword, weighted, wooden, and jagged. With it, he went out to the courtyard where the brothers used to train.
The rain stopped pouring. Only the wind.
"Start," he ordered himself.
A 15-kilometer run in a circle. Then push-ups. 150 times. Then running again. Then strikes. The sword cut through the air, and each swing was accompanied by a flash of shadow. At first, the shadow was faint, but it grew stronger with each repetition. After 100 repetitions, the shadow formed a ring around him, as if the world was beginning to acknowledge the ritual of pain.
"You don't need this," Ward said.
"Yes," Kalen replied. "To remember that I am alive."
He fought his way through the darkness. Through the pain. Through everything that prevented him from becoming who he was meant to be. He fell. He spat blood. He got up. And he did it again.
At dawn, he could barely stand.
But for the first time in days, there was a spark in his eyes.
When he returned to the house, Celia was waiting at the entrance.
— Are you really going to take revenge?"
Kalen looked at her. For a long time. Then he said:
"I'm not seeking revenge. I'm just looking for those who have crossed the line. They should not be allowed to live."
The sister nodded. And then, quietly:
"If you need me... I'll help."
He fell asleep that night.
In his dream, a dragon came to him. It was black, with pulsating eyes that reflected empty cities.
"You're on the edge," he said. "Take a step, and you'll become someone even your shadows fear."
Kalen looked up.
"And if I'm not afraid?"
"Then you'll start to transform into something else."
He woke up without remembering how.
But he could still taste the ash on his tongue.