The night air was cool when Zed stepped out of the great hall. The jeers and whispers still clung to his ears like burrs, each word a lash: trash, disappointment, shame. He wanted to sink into the cobblestones, vanish into the shadows. Instead, he forced his feet to move.
The path wound past the clan lake, where moonlight shimmered silver across the still water. A willow tree bent low beside the bank, its long branches trailing the surface like strands of hair. Beyond it, cobblestones curved toward a quiet courtyard. Lanterns swayed in the night breeze, their glow outlining the sanded edges of a Zen garden—perfect circles raked in gravel around carefully placed stones.
At the garden's edge stood a building in the style of the old clans—curved eaves, carved beams, dragons painted on the rafters. The faint smell of ink and oil lamps clung to it. Zed paused, gathering what little courage he had left, then lifted his hand and knocked.
A heavy voice from within called him before he could retreat.
"Zed."
The night was deep when Zed found himself before his father's study. The echoes of laughter from the ceremony still gnawed at him, the words trash, disappointment, shame clinging to his skin like mud. He almost turned back, but the heavy voice from within called him in.
His father, Varun Latian, sat by a dim lamp, the light tracing the hard lines of a warrior who had carried the clan on his shoulders for decades. Yet now, his eyes were not cold. They were tired, and behind that fatigue, a warmth only a father could give.
Zed lowered his head. "I failed you."
Varun shook his head slowly. "You failed yourself, not me. Do you think I cared for numbers on a stone? You are my son. The only family I have left. The clan is blood and duty, but you… you are my heart."
The words pierced deeper than any insult could. Memories flickered: his mother's smile before she faded, the nights his father held him even while his shoulders bore the burden of leadership. Zed clenched his fists.
"I thought giving you comfort would protect you," Varun said, voice thick. "Perhaps it made you soft. That is my fault, not yours."
"No, Father…" Zed's chest burned as guilt surged. I let him down. He gave me everything, and I repaid him with nothing.
Varun placed a calloused hand on his son's shoulder. "Your mother believed in you. I believe in you. Do not betray that trust, Zed. Whatever path you choose, walk it without shame."
Zed's throat tightened, but he forced himself to nod. "I won't disappoint you again."
For the first time in years, he meant it.
Varun leaned back, retrieving a small carved seal from his desk. The clan sigil glimmered faintly in the lamplight. "This will grant you access to the first floor of the Skill Pavilion and the armory. Use it. Find your path."
Zed accepted the seal with both hands. It felt heavier than iron.
When he stepped out again, the night was calmer. The torches along the stone path guided him northward. The clan compound stretched wide: training grounds to the east where dummies and weapon racks loomed in neat rows, barracks lining the inner wall, the faint smell of smoke from the kitchens drifting on the wind.
The Skill Pavilion rose beyond the training grounds, a tall structure of black stone and crimson beams, its five levels stacked like a pagoda. The upper floors were guarded by disciples in silver-stitched uniforms; only the clan's most gifted could enter those halls. The lower floor, where Zed was permitted, stood quieter, dimmer—where forgotten scrolls gathered dust.
Past the pavilion, further west, stood the armory: a squat, thick-walled building with iron doors banded in bronze. Torchlight flickered off its hinges, and two sentries leaned on their halberds, eyes sharp even in the dark. Weapons were blood and heritage to the Latian clan, and none were left unguarded.
Zed lingered at the crossroad of paths—one toward the pavilion, one toward the armory. His father's words weighed on him, but beneath the weight was something new.
He tightened his grip on the seal.
If a beast cannot fight for me, then I'll fight with my own hands. If my runes are weak, then I'll carve strength into my body. I won't betray him. Not again.
The torches flickered as the laughter of the hall drowned him, but for the first time, Zed walked forward without bowing his head.