The smell of cheap wine and stale sweat was my usual perfume in these parts. Three pairs of female eyes, brighter than a newly minted coin, watched me with a mix of interest and calculation. Laughter faded in the stale air of the brothel, and I, Caelan MacCrae, barely fifteen and with a body that was starting to resemble a man's but a head that still fancied itself immortal, felt the familiar tingle of impatience. It was a tingle my father, Fergus, had taught me to recognize as a warning, although at that moment, the warning came wrapped in whispered promises and furtive caresses.
"It's almost time," one of them whispered to me, with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes but promised a world of sensations. Her agile, knowing hand brushed my thigh, sending an electric current through my body. The other two moved closer, their intense gazes and bodies moving with a feline grace that made me forget, if only for a moment, the real purpose of my presence there. It wasn't just time that was pressing, but the nature of the pleasures being offered to me—pleasures that my father, with his steel rigidity, would never approve.
I closed my eyes for a moment, and the image of his wooden leg, the memory of his stories told in the dim light of our stone cabin, hit me with the force of a tide. My mother, Eleanor, the educated and silent Englishwoman, always with a book in her hands, would tell me that life was like a poem, full of rhythm and meaning. My father, the ex-soldier Fergus MacCrae, a man who had lost a leg in the border wars and who, as "compensation," had been given my mother, would say that life was like a dagger: sharp, precise, and lethal. I, at that moment, felt I was both, and neither suited me well, especially when the touch of a feminine hand reminded me of the duality of my existence.
I jumped up, leaving my companions with a mix of surprise and disapproval, though their eyes still sparkled with a glint of anticipation. "I have to go," I announced, trying to sound firmer than I felt while pulling away from the hands that still sought to cling to me. "Urgent family matters. You know, duty calls… or my father, which is basically the same, just with less silk and more iron."
I dashed out of the brothel, the cool night air hitting my face like a balm, a welcome relief from the intense atmosphere I had just left behind. The path home was a labyrinth of narrow alleys and bustling markets. As I ran, I tried to slip into my clothes with the agility of a cat, or at least that's what I hoped, recalling my father's lessons on discretion and speed. Each movement was a precarious act of balance, a reminder that my life was a constant dance between danger and pleasure.
"Watch out, kid!" shouted a fish vendor as I nearly knocked over his stall. I could smell the scent of scales and salt sticking to my clothes, an aroma that contrasted with the lavender my mother used and the more exotic perfumes that now seemed to linger on my skin. She, the daughter of a merchant, who could recite poets and conjugate verbs as if they were spells. And he, the soldier who dreamed of glory but ended up in a Scottish field, training me to be the warrior he could not be. They named me Caelan, as an echo of his own truncated youth, and now I found myself navigating the turbulent waters of early adulthood, with the lessons of both worlds resonating within me.
I remember the lessons from the age of five: to walk without making a sound, like a shadow. To observe before speaking, like a predator. To hold a knife as if it were an extension of my own body. My father gifted me my first dagger at eight. It was not a toy; it was a promise. A promise of what I was meant to be. And now, at fifteen, that promise was starting to take on more complex forms, sometimes seductive, sometimes deadly.
At twelve, he sent me north, with my cousin, to train with the riders of the MacLeod clan. His words still echoed in my head: "Don't come back until you can look a man in the eye without him knowing whether you're going to kill him or save him." And here I am, at fifteen, back again. Taller, stronger, with a skill in movement that my father seems to approve. But am I a warrior? I still don't know. All I know is that life is teaching me lessons that go beyond steel.
My father would tell me war stories, but never glorious ones. Always dirty, always real. How blood sticks to armor, how fear paralyzes you before you can even scream. He'd make me sleep on the ground, hunt my own food, read men's gestures before their words. And my mother, Eleanor, taught me to read, to write, to think. I became more than just a soldier, or so he'd tell me. A strategist. A man with a soul divided between duty and desire.
Finally, I reached the clearing. The moon, nearly full, bathed the grass in a silver light. My father was there, motionless as a stone statue, a torch in one hand and the carved stone bearing our clan's symbol in the other. Beside him, a sword wrapped in black cloth, as if still bleeding.
Fergus didn't say a word. He just pointed to the buried sword. His gaze was intense, appraising. "Knowing how to fight isn't enough," he finally said, his deep voice resonating in the silence. "You have to know when *not* to. You have to know when silence weighs more than a shout. And today, Caelan, you're going to learn the difference between brute force and true mastery."
My task was to unearth the sword without tearing the cloth. An act of control, of precision. I felt the cold earth beneath my hands as I dug, each movement measured, each breath held. The black cloth slid away smoothly, revealing the polished steel. I'd done it. A sigh of relief escaped my lips.
Then, Fergus took his dagger and tossed it to me. Instinct took over. I caught it in mid-air, the cold metal fitting into my palm. Another success.
And then, the final test. Fergus sat on a rock, his gaze fixed on me. "Now, kill me," he said.
I froze. Kill my father? A part of me, the one trained since childhood, the one that craved his approval, was ready to obey. But another part, the one that had learned to read gestures, the one my mother had taught me to think, rebelled. I couldn't. I didn't *want* to. Not because I couldn't, but because I understood. I understood that a true warrior doesn't obey blind orders.
The silence stretched between us, dense, heavy with meaning. Fergus watched me for a long moment, and then, a slow, almost imperceptible smile spread across his lips. A smile I hadn't seen in years.
"Then," he said, his voice now tinged with something akin to pride, "you are no longer my son. You are my legacy."
My legacy. The phrase hit me with the force of a hammer. I had passed the test, demonstrated control and instinct. I had shown I could think for myself. But instead of feeling like a warrior, I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders. The burden of being my father's legacy, of fulfilling his unachieved dreams, felt heavier than ever. I wasn't a warrior yet. And the doubt, that old companion.