Liven froze, breath knocking against his ribs. The sight before him stole his words: three girls and four boys, each clutching a wooden training sword, eyes bright and full of mischief. They stood in a loose semicircle, waiting like young predators.
Darel turned to him with a grin. "You must be surprised. I'm a swordsman now," he said, as if that explained everything.
A girl's voice cut through with a sharp, teasing edge. "Master, who's this weird-haired kid?"
Liven's brow twitched; he answered with a little barb of his own, lips curling. "The weird one is you."
The girl bristled and took a step forward, blade raised—then Darel stepped between them with a quick, practiced motion. "That's enough, Saire," he said firmly.
Liven thought gratefully, Good thing I put on the eye bandage…
Darel smiled and waved a hand. "Come on, Riven. Meet your new companions. You'll be training with us now."
"No! I won't—" Liven stepped back, panic flaring.
"Liven!" Darel barked sharply.
"…Fine," Riven muttered, reluctantly folding under the command.
The children introduced themselves in a flurry, each voice a different color.
"I'm Myra, twelve."
"Saire, eleven."
"Lyssa, ten. Nice to meet you, Liven!" she chimed sweetly.
Riven catalogued them in his head—Saire the quick-tempered, Lyssa small but bright. His pulse thudded quietly under his ribs: these were the faces of his new world.
Darel turned to the boys. One of them stubbornly refused to speak at first.
"Say it—" Darel prompted.
The boy jumped, then smirked. "Fine. I'm Arden. Thirteen. Hello, weird-haired kid," he said with a teasing grin.
Liven bit back a retort. Not again, he thought, but kept silent.
"I'm Kael, ten," another offered, almost shy.
Arden shot him a warning look. "Don't talk like that about Riven."
Arden sniffed, annoyed. "Tch."
"I'm Darian, twelve. One eye? Ordinary." Darian's voice dropped the word like a stone.
One eye. Again. Liven felt the old heat rise—annoyance, shame, a tight coil of humiliation—but he did not answer aloud.
Finally, a smaller voice: "I'm Elian, twelve."
Darel nodded with a pleased expression. "Good. Everyone's introduced. Liven, come with me."
"Okay," Liven said, the word brittle.
Darel led him toward a rack of wooden swords. "Pick one up from there."
Liven's mind scrolled in panic: What is this old man planning? Is this what I think it is?
"Kael, you too," Darel called. "You two will duel."
"A duel?!" Liven snapped, recoil sharpening his tone. "Are you insane, old man? I'm not fighting some fight—why would I?!"
All eyes pivoted to him like spikes.
Darel's calm face held steady. "I only want to see your fighting capability."
"…Just my strength? Fine."
Kael's grin stretched thin. "Let it be a good match."
Liven nervously checked the bandage over his left eye. "Good luck…"
Kael was the same age as him—ten. Nothing to worry about, Liven tried to tell himself.
But Kael's grin snapped into something raw. With a yell that tasted of cruelty, he lunged: "I'LL KILL YOU, YOU FILTHY MONSTER!!"
Liven's eyes widened. Kill? This was meant to be training—this was supposed to be safe, a test. Why did Kael sound like he wanted blood?
Darel hesitated, a fraction too late to stop what came next. Kael kept screaming, over and over: "I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU!"
The chant of the mob—those old village shouts—swept through Riven's thoughts like a hurricane: "GIVE US THE CURSED CHILD!" "HIS MOTHER WAS KILLED!" "Liven must live!"
The demon's whisper slithered into his ear: "Kill him… Your mother didn't do anything. Will you do nothing, Riven?"
Blood rose hot in his veins. The world honed to a single point; the air thinned. Riven's hand moved—automatic, fueled by something older than reason. He wrenched Kael's wooden sword from his grip in a motion so sharp it sounded like a whip crack, and thrust it forward, aiming straight for the boy's chest.
For a heartbeat the world seemed to stop. Only two people truly understood the motion: Riven—and Darel, who had stepped too late.
The sword met wood and air; Kael's face was a portrait of bewilderment. Liven's lungs burned. He felt raw and wild, like a beast caught at the edge of a cliff. For an instant the tip of the blade was a breath away from Kael's heart.
Then, as though something inside him remembered a different path, he stopped. The momentum cracked off like ice. Riven's chest heaved. He could hear his own blood in his ears. Kael stood frozen, staring as if at a ghost.
Silence flooded the clearing. The children's eyes were round, some wide with fear, some hungry for drama. Darel's face had lost its smile; his expression was a complex mesh of shock and sorrow.
Liven's hands trembled. The duel that had been a simple test had nearly become a blade of fate. He lowered the wood slowly, each breath a small victory over the volcanic fury within.
Kael, still pale and shaking, looked at Liven as if seeing him for the first time—no longer an odd boy, but something dangerous, unpredictable.
Liven swallowed. The bandage felt heavy in his hands, and the shadow behind his eye pulsed like a promise. He had tasted the edge of what he could do—and both dread and a strange, fierce clarity settled over him.