The night after the collectors left, the Veer household was silent. Too silent. Krisan lay awake on his thin mattress, his small fists clenched beneath the blanket.
From the other room, he heard his father's quiet sighs, heavy with a burden Krisan could not yet lift. The debt—the shame—it hung over them like a shadow that refused to dissipate.
He hated it. He hated feeling powerless.
The next morning, Krisan followed his father to the empty lot behind the house. Arjan picked up a wooden staff, swinging and blocking with the precision of a soldier. The movements were fluid, disciplined.
Krisan picked up a broken stick. His arms shook, his small hands blistered, but he mirrored his father's movements.
"Too heavy," Arjan muttered, seeing his son struggle.
"I can do it," Krisan said, teeth clenched.
Arjan paused, studying him. For a moment, his tired eyes met Krisan's burning gaze. "You're stubborn," he said quietly. "But stubbornness alone doesn't make you strong."
Krisan nodded. He would learn. Somehow.
---
That evening, a man waited by the door. Not one of the collectors. Not a villager either. He carried himself with a quiet menace, his eyes sharp and calculating.
"Arjan Veer," the man said smoothly. "I heard the collectors came."
Arjan's expression hardened. "Who are you?"
"Veyran," the man said, his smile faint, almost imperceptible. "Some call me a lender. Others call me a shark. I prefer… a teacher."
His gaze lingered on Krisan. "And you… you have fire. But fire alone will burn you if you don't learn to control it."
Arjan's jaw tightened. "If you're here to humiliate us, leave."
Veyran shook his head. "No humiliation. I offer opportunity. The world doesn't hand power to the innocent. It rewards those who know where to strike, and how to survive the strike itself."
Krisan felt a chill. Something about Veyran's calm gaze made his pulse quicken—not fear, but recognition. He had met a mind that could match him in ways his father never could.
---
Over the next few weeks, Veyran became a shadow in their lives. Sometimes lending small sums to Krisan under impossible conditions. Sometimes testing him with puzzles of money, influence, and subtle danger.
One night, he whispered:
> "Power doesn't ask permission. It takes. Only the prepared can hold it. Watch, learn, anticipate… or be crushed."
Krisan listened. Absorbed every word. And at night, when the house was quiet and his parents slept, he repeated the word that had haunted him since the dream:
Prepare.
He didn't yet know what he was preparing for. Only that Veyran was the first shadow pulling at the edges of his future. And he would follow it wherever it led.