Three years had passed.
The fragile, tearful boy Mosin had grown into a lean, agile young man.
Under Jester's guidance, he had trained relentlessly — learning the arts of stealth, espionage, and silent combat.
Day after day, dawn to dusk, the boy who once clung to a toy sword was now a skilled spy, moving with precision and purpose.
"Remember, Mosin," Jester said one morning, watching him practice a series of rapid strikes, "every movement has a purpose. Nothing is wasted. Focus."
Mosin nodded, sweat beading on his forehead as he executed a perfect lunge.
"Yes, master."
After a few hours, Jester stood, stretching his shoulders.
"I'll be back shortly. Continue your drills, Mosin."
Mosin bowed respectfully.
"Okay, master."
But the moment Jester disappeared from sight, a shadow detached itself from the edge of the training courtyard.
A man appeared, his face hidden beneath a dark cloth, his presence cold and deliberate.
"Your name is Mosin, right?" the figure asked, his voice low and measured.
Mosin froze, hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his dagger.
"Who… who are you?"
The stranger shook his head slowly.
"You don't need to know that. But I will tell you one thing: three years ago… the one who killed your parents… was not Kazmi. It was Jester."
Mosin staggered back, disbelief cracking through his voice.
"What? How… how can I believe you? Jester — he was my father's student. He protected me… he raised me!"
The stranger's tone sharpened, cutting through Mosin's confusion like a blade.
"He was greedy. Ambition blinded him. He wanted to be the top spy, no matter the cost. Your father… he paid the price. And so did everyone you loved."
Mosin's mind reeled.
The foundations of everything he had known — his training, his trust, his life — threatened to collapse in an instant.
The stranger reached into his cloak and pulled out a folded letter, its seal still intact.
"Look at this," he said, pressing it into Mosin's hands.
Mosin hesitated, then unfolded the parchment.
The elegant handwriting of several high-ranking members of the royal families filled the page.
The words were clear, cold, and unyielding: they pledged support to anyone who would eliminate Mosin's parents.
Mosin's eyes widened, disbelief freezing him in place.
His fingers trembled as he traced the letters, the weight of betrayal settling heavy in his chest.
The stranger's voice was quiet but cutting.
"Now… do you believe me? The man you have been calling master… the one who trained you… the one who protected you… is the one who killed your family."
Mosin staggered back, his face pale, eyes wide.
Everything he had trusted, everything he had relied upon, crumbled in an instant.
The person who had taught him, guided him, shaped him into who he was now… was his family's murderer.
A cold shiver ran through him.
The world seemed to tilt sideways, the training yard fading as the truth sank deep into his bones.
The stranger's hand stayed tucked in his cloak, the lantern light catching the edge of a folded map.
"I'll help you take your revenge," he said quietly, each word measured.
"But you'll owe me the same. Help me, and I'll show you how to make them pay."
Mosin stared at the paper in his trembling hands, the world narrowing to that single, dangerous offer.
Behind him, the training yard seemed to hold its breath.
Mosin's grip tightened on the folded letter until the edges bit into his palm.
"If this is a lie," Mosin said, voice low and steady though his hands trembled, "I'll kill you myself."
The stranger's expression didn't change. For a beat the alley seemed to hold its breath — lantern light guttering against stone, the distant clatter of the town beyond.
Then the man gave the faintest of nods, as if he'd expected nothing less.
"That will not be necessary," he answered quietly. His voice was flat, not cruel — the tone of someone used to bargains, not bluster.
"Believe what you must for now. You'll see the proof soon enough."
Mosin's jaw worked.
"Words are cheap," he said. "You bring me a paper. Why should I trust you?"
The stranger stepped a half pace closer, the lantern between them throwing a long shadow across the cobbles.
"Because I don't ask for your trust — only your attention."
He folded his hands behind his back and produced a small, plain token from his coat; he didn't offer it to Mosin, simply let it catch the light for a second.
Mosin stared hard.
"I'll believe you for now," he said, voice low and dangerous.
"But if I find out you lied— I will kill you."
The man's expression didn't change. "Enough," he replied coolly.
"You will soon see the whole truth. Tonight—go to the lake by the old mill. I will send someone there. Meet him alone. After that, you will trust us more."
Mosin stared at him, the conviction in the stranger's face matched by a terrible calm.
"And if I refuse?" Mosin asked.
The stranger shrugged, almost pitying.
"You won't refuse. You want the truth more than you want easy comfort."
Mosin folded the letter away again, tucking it beneath his tunic as if to keep the fact of it warm. He nodded once, curt.
"I'll be there," he said.
"If you lie—remember my words."
The man's shadow seemed to soften for a fraction of a second.
"I remember," he replied. Then, without another word, he melted back into the darkness from which he'd come, leaving Mosin alone with the street's cool breath and a decision that would not let him rest.
—Night at the old mill—
Moonlight silvered the broken wheel and the still water.
Mosin moved through the reed-shadowed path, shoulders tense, every step quiet.
He crouched behind the ruined sluice and waited, blade ready at his hip.
A shape detached from the trees and came forward.
Mosin sprang up, hand on steel.
"Who's there? Show yourself!" he barked.
The man stopped in the moonlight and let it touch his face.
"I am Platius," he said. "That man sent me."
Mosin's grip tightened.
"Why not him?" he demanded.
"Why send you?"
Platius's eyes never left him.
"You don't need to know why," he answered.
"You wanted proof. You will have it."
The night air was cold as Platius led Mosin down the narrow dirt path that wound through the forest.
The moonlight flickered through the branches, glinting off the edges of Mosin's dagger as he kept his guard up.
Neither of them spoke for a while — only the sound of boots crunching on gravel filled the silence.
Soon, the forest opened into a wide clearing, and before them rose a dark, towering castle at the center of a city. Its stone walls were old but still strong.
They entered the city without getting anyone attention.
Mosin's brows knitted.
"What are you trying to do, Platius?" he asked in a low voice, suspicion lacing every word.
Platius turned his head slightly, a thin grin spreading under the moonlight.
"You wanted proof, didn't you?" he said calmly.
"Then we'll ask the royals who ordered it themselves. Threaten them — tell them you'll kill them — and they'll tell you everything. It's easy to make cowards talk."
Mosin stared at him, uncertain whether to feel disgusted or intrigued by the man's cold confidence.
Platius chuckled, stepping closer to the edge of the castle's light.
"These fools… they're too cowardly. I like them that way."
His laughter echoed faintly in the still night.
Platius took Mosin to a large house that looked like it belonged to royalty.
The walls were decorated with paintings, gold lamps hung along the hallway, and red carpets ran across the marble floor.
Everything looked expensive and old, showing the power of the people who lived there.
Then Platius pushed open a side door and led Mosin through a narrow passage hidden behind a curtain.
The tunnel was dark and quiet, leading them under the main hall until they reached a secret entrance near the royal family's private rooms.
Platius stopped at the end of the passage and looked at Mosin.
"The head of this family," he said quietly, "was the one who ordered your father's death.
They asked Jester to do it — promised him promotion in return."
He looked back at the door ahead.
"You'll know it in a few seconds."
As they were about to enter the room, Mosin's thoughts spun restlessly.
Am I really going to know the truth behind my family's death? he thought, his chest tightening.
Was it truly Jester… or are they lying to me too?
They stepped quietly into the room.
The head of the family lay asleep on a grand bed draped in deep red silk, the dim light of a nearby lantern casting long shadows across the walls.
Before Mosin could even breathe, Platius moved — fast as a flicker of light.
In an instant, he was beside the bed, his knife pressed cold against the man's throat.
The noble's eyes snapped open, fear flooding them as he tried to scream —
but Platius clamped a hand over his mouth.
"Not a sound," Platius hissed softly, his voice cold and sharp.
"One wrong move, and I'll open your throat before you finish a word."
The head of the family nodded, eyes wide with fear.
Platius's knife pressed steadily against his throat, his gaze sharp.
"Whatever I ask," Platius said, "you will answer with a simple yes or no. Understand?"
The man swallowed hard.
"Yes."
Platius's eyes flicked to Mosin.
"Were you the one who asked for *****'s death?"
The head's voice was barely audible.
"Yes."
Mosin's chest tightened, rage boiling over. He stepped forward, hand reaching for his dagger.
"No… I—"
"Wait," Platius said firmly, blocking him.
Platius turned back to the trembling noble.
"Who did you order to kill him? Was it Jester?"
"Yes," the head admitted, voice quivering.
Mosin froze, the world tilting around him.
Three years of trust, training, and guidance — all shattered in an instant.
The man he had come to rely on, the one who had raised him after the death of his family… was the murderer of his own parents.
Platius glanced at Mosin, his expression unreadable.
"He is yours now."
Before Mosin could respond, before the noble could speak another word, he drew his dagger.
In a swift, precise motion, the head of the family's life ended, his eyes wide in shock.
Mosin stepped back, chest heaving, the weight of vengeance and betrayal settling over him.
In a matter of seconds, they were out of the room.
Mosin's mind was a storm of fury and grief, every thought consumed by one thing: revenge.
The path ahead was clear. The price of betrayal would be paid.
And with that, he followed silently, letting the fire of vengeance settle into his bones.