The rain had not stopped for days, and the roof above them groaned with the weight of it. Orin lay on a pallet of straw that stank of mildew, shivering beneath a threadbare cloak that the assassin man had tossed over him. The cloak smelled faintly of smoke, steel, and the road. It was the smell of survival, a smell Orin already trusted more than the stinking alleys and rotting hands that had once fed him scraps. He turned the thought over like a stone in his palm. Days ago, he had been nothing—another urchin, another mouth not worth feeding. They would have slit his throat like they slit the others when they grew too slow, too weak, too broken to keep running errands. His broken leg had doomed him. Only then had the man appeared, tall and silent, blades in his hands glimmering in the rain like slivers of moonlight, cutting down the gang one by one as easily as a butcher carving meat.
That man was here now. Sitting in the corner of the dim room, firelight catching on his cheekbones. Orin watched him with the wide eyes of a child who knew that in one man's decision his life had been spared. The assassin man finally spoke, his voice rough as if carved from stone.
"My name is Kaelris," he said. His face was shadowed by the hood he rarely removed, yet his eyes gleamed with the kind of patience Orin had only ever seen in predators before they struck. "I kill men for a living. That night in the rain, you saw what I am. I am an assassin."
Orin's throat closed. He had known it, but to hear the word was like hearing a priest speak of gods—weighty, dangerous, final. He swallowed, clutching the edge of the cloak tighter. Kaelris did not look at him with kindness, nor cruelty. Only truth.
"You may think that makes me powerful. It does not," Kaelris went on, his tone flat. "It makes me necessary to some, hated by most, and hunted by many. It is a path paved with silence and blood, with no songs to honor it, no hearth to return to. If you walk it, you may not live long. Perhaps you will die sooner than you would on the streets. Perhaps not. But you will die. That, at least, is certain."
Orin shivered again, though not from the cold. He remembered the glint of blades flashing in rain. He remembered how the man had moved, swift as shadow, unstoppable as storm. He remembered how alive he had felt watching it, even while crawling on his useless leg.
Kaelris leaned forward. "I will offer you choice. I can train you, if you wish. Train you to be as I am. An assassin. It is a difficult road, and it will break you if you are not careful. Or you may refuse. If you refuse, you will still remain here until you mend, and then you may go where you will. I do not cast children onto the street like refuse. The choice is yours."
He paused, then added with quiet steel: "Do not think lightly. I will give you days to decide. Think well on what life you would rather have."
Orin stared at him, trembling. He opened his mouth to ask something, anything, but no words came. Kaelris rose, tall as a spire, and left him in silence with only the fire crackling.
***
The days that followed stretched long and aching. Orin's leg throbbed when he tried to stand, but Kaelris had bound it in cloth and wood so it would heal straight. He could not run, could not fight, could not even scavenge. All he could do was think. And think he did, though thinking hurt almost more than his leg.
What did he want to be? The question itself felt strange. Children in fine houses had answers to it. They would say knight, priest, scholar, merchant. They would boast and laugh and dream. Orin had never dreamed. The orphanage had beaten dreaming out of him before he even knew how to hold it. The streets had taught him something sharper: dreams fed no one.
He lay awake at night, listening to the rain and imagining futures. Could he ever be a smith? He had seen smiths once—thick-armed, strong-backed, their forges glowing with fire like a second sun. No one would take in a crippled boy with no kin, no coin, and a reputation as a gutter rat.
Could he be a guard? He snorted at the thought. Guards needed training, armor, pay. They had families that bought them meals until they were strong enough to earn their own. He had none of that.
Could he be a merchant? The word made him laugh bitterly in the dark. Merchants had wagons, stock, ledgers. He had rags and scars and an empty belly.
The longer he thought, the more he knew the truth. There was no path for him in this world except the one laid at his feet by Kaelris.
And yet, even if he had choices, even if some miracle handed him coin and kin, Orin knew something else about himself. He liked fighting. He liked it in a way he could not explain. When fists flew, when knives flashed, when the world sharpened to the edge of survival, something in him burned awake. He was no good at fighting—his small body had been beaten bloody more times than he cared to count—but in the fight he felt alive. More alive than when stealing crusts or running errands for thieves. Fighting filled the hollowness inside him.
That thought terrified him, and yet he clung to it.
For days he wrestled with it, limping from straw to window, staring at the gray rain. Kaelris did not press him. The assassin went about his business quietly—cleaning blades, sharpening steel, binding bundles of herbs that smelled acrid and strange. Sometimes he vanished at dawn and returned at dusk, the scent of blood clinging to his boots. He never spoke of what he did. He never asked Orin what he had decided.
The silence itself was heavy, pressing Orin closer and closer to the truth he feared to speak aloud.
***
On the fourth day, Orin limped forward while Kaelris sat sharpening a curved dagger by the fire. The scrape of steel on stone echoed in the dim chamber. Orin's palms were slick with sweat, though he wiped them against his rags.
"I've decided," he said. His voice cracked, child-thin yet carried by something harder. Kaelris did not look up at once. Only after a moment did he lift his eyes, dark and unwavering.
"Have you," he said. Not a question.
"Yes." Orin swallowed. "I… I want to be an assassin. I want to fight. I want to learn."
Kaelris studied him for a long, unbroken silence. His gaze cut through Orin like knives, weighing every ounce of fear and every thread of resolve. At last, he set the dagger down.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes." Orin forced the word out, though his chest hammered. "It's what I want. I'm sure."
Kaelris leaned back. His face did not soften, did not harden, only remained as unreadable as stone.
"Very well," he said at last. "You shall be taught the ways of assassins. Your life, from this day, is no longer yours. It belongs to shadow, silence, and death. Remember this: I am not your savior. I am your teacher. What you become will be carved by your own hands. If you falter, you will die. If you endure, perhaps you will live."
He reached down, lifted the dagger, and held it out. Its blade glimmered with firelight.
"Take it, Orin Kaelen. Let this be the first step into darkness."
Orin's hands shook as he reached. The hilt was cold, heavier than he expected. His reflection shimmered in the blade—hollow cheeks, too-large eyes, a child's face staring back at him. He clutched it anyway, drawing breath as if the air itself had changed.
In that moment, with rain still drumming the world outside, Orin Kaelen stepped into the life he had chosen.
The life of an assassin.
***
The boy rose before dawn, though he barely slept at all. His body was still mending, his leg bound stiff with splints, yet Kaelris had told him that healing did not excuse idleness. The world would not wait for him to be ready. He hobbled toward the dim glow of coals, where the assassin sat cross-legged in silence. Before him lay an array of blades—long knives, short knives, curved and straight, each set carefully in a line like relics upon an altar. Steel whispered in the pale hush of a dying moon.
Kaelris did not speak at first. He lifted one knife, balanced it on two fingers, then placed it back. When Orin drew closer, the man finally gestured. A hand sweeping to the knives.
"Choose."
Orin hesitated. His fingers hovered above the blades, his heart hammering. He finally touched a short dagger, its hilt wrapped in leather worn smooth by years of grip.
"Feel its weight," Kaelris said. His voice was gravel and patience. "Balance in your palm. Do not clutch. Do not tremble. If fear takes your hand, the blade will betray you."
Orin lifted the dagger. Heavy. Cold. He held it too tightly, his knuckles white. Kaelris shook his head.
"Loosen."
He obeyed. The dagger sat easier then, as if it belonged. Kaelris reached for another blade—longer, thinner. He handed it over.
"Throwing steel is not stabbing steel. Learn the difference."
He spent the next hour placing blades in Orin's hands, forcing him to test weight, length, and balance. Short knives whispered of silence and close work. Long daggers hungered for the rush of flight. Kaelris corrected each mistake with no more than a word or a tap of his finger.
By dawn's light, Orin's palms ached from clutching, releasing, shifting grips. He cradled the weapons as though each were an extension of his own breath.
***
The lessons deepened. Kaelris led him to the center of the room, the floor spread with shards of broken glass.
"Cross," he said.
Orin blinked. "Barefoot?"
"Yes."
The boy swallowed. He removed his boots, feeling the sting of cold stone. The glass glittered like frost. He stepped forward—heel, ball, toe. The first shard pricked, slicing shallow. He hissed, but Kaelris only watched, arms folded.
"Every step could betray you. Every creak of a board, every crunch of grit, every gasp of pain. If you cannot move like silence, you cannot kill in silence."
So Orin walked. He tested each step as though it bore death. Glass bit his feet, blood smearing across shards, but he clenched his jaw and pressed forward. By the far wall, he was shaking. His soles throbbed.
"Again," Kaelris ordered.
Again, Orin crossed. Again, and again, until pain became a teacher sharper than any blade. When at last he collapsed, panting, Kaelris knelt beside him.
"You will remember this more than any lecture," the assassin said. "Pain etches lessons into bone. You will not forget."
Orin nodded weakly, and in truth he knew Kaelris was right.
***
Balance came next. Kaelris led him outside, to beams slick with dew, to rooftops silvered by dawn.
"Walk," he commanded.
The ridgepole swayed beneath Orin's trembling steps. He stretched his arms, trying not to look at the drop. Wind pressed against him like an enemy's shove.
Kaelris hurled a stone. It struck the beam beside Orin's foot. He yelped, nearly falling.
"Crouch," Kaelris barked. "Stay low. Expect attack. Always."
Another stone flew. Orin ducked, swaying. He slipped once, caught himself, heart lurching. Every fall ended not in comfort but in command: climb again. Pain taught muscle. Humiliation forged silence into strength.
By midday Orin no longer swayed like a reed. His body remembered what words could not.
***
When hunger gnawed his belly, Kaelris gave him a locked chest.
"No food," the man said, "until you open it."
He handed Orin two bent wires.
The boy's stomach cried. Hours passed. He fumbled with the lock until his fingers bled. Kaelris offered no help, only silence. At last, the mechanism yielded with a soft click. Orin opened the chest to find bread and cheese. He devoured them like a wolf, but the lesson bit deeper than the hunger.
"Survival is never given," Kaelris said. "It is taken—with clever hands, with patience. A man who cannot open locks will die chained, or starve with food beneath his nose."
***
Night fell. Kaelris blindfolded him and left him in a darkened room.
"Defend yourself," the assassin whispered from the dark.
Rats scurried at Orin's feet. Then—silence. Air brushed his cheek. A strike came swift as a whip. Orin lifted wooden daggers, parrying too late. Pain stung his shoulder.
Again.
Again.
Kaelris attacked without warning, bruising blows meant not to kill but to teach. Orin flailed, sweat blinding beneath the cloth. His ears strained, his heart hammered. At last, something changed. His body began to listen where ears could not. Reflex, instinct. The whisper of leather, the shift of weight in the dark. He blocked one strike. Then another.
Kaelris stopped. "Good. Your body remembers what your eyes cannot. Sight is a crutch. Learn to feel."
***
At times, Kaelris vanished. He left Orin to track him through alleys, through forest paths. Orin learned to read bent grass, crushed mud, faint smoke on the air, disturbed birds fleeing branches. Every predator leaves a trail. Every man can be hunted. When at last Orin found him, Kaelris demanded a strike.
"Not from rage. From certainty. Never waste motion. Never strike twice where once would suffice."
So Orin drove his blade into straw dummies, clean through throat, chest, heart. His hands blistered, raw, but his strikes grew surer.
***
Even in rest, there were lessons. Kaelris showed him roots and herbs, poisons distilled into vials. How to smear venom on steel without nicking skin. How to recognize tremors in a man's hand, the blue tinge of lips. Silent signs of death.
Sleep, too, was training. Kaelris never let him drift deep. He woke him with sudden noises, with cold water splashed on his face, with shadows looming over his bed. Orin learned to dream as an animal dreams—never fully yielding, never fully safe.
***
Days blurred into each other. Knife drills. Balance beams. Locks and poisons. Sweat and blood. Orin's body bore new scars, faint but telling. His eyes carried weight he had never known.
Yet beyond the training, Kaelris began to teach him what assassins were, not merely what they did.
"An assassin," he said one evening, cleaning his blades, "is not a brawler, not a thief, not a soldier. We are silence given shape. We do not kill for pleasure, nor waste words or motion. We kill because coin demands it. Our loyalty is to the contract, not to kings, not to causes. Never confuse yourself with heroes. Heroes die in songs. Assassins die in shadows."
Orin listened, clutching the wooden dagger in his lap.
"You will need names," Kaelris went on. "Not one, but many. Orin Kaelen will vanish when the time comes. You will be Kareth in one town, Dorn in another, Halen on the road. You will wear faces as easily as cloaks. Forget who you are, if you must. Only the work matters."
"Will I… meet others?" Orin asked.
Kaelris's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps. Some will see you as kin. Others as threat. Trust few. We are not a brotherhood bound in love. We are wolves who sometimes share the hunt. Know when to bare teeth. Know when to bow your head. And always, always keep your true self buried deeper than any grave."
The words sank heavy. Orin hugged his knees, trying to imagine himself with false names, false faces. It felt like burying the last scraps of boyhood he had left.
Kaelris saw the struggle but did not soften. "You chose this path. Shadows are cruel, yet they can keep you alive longer than the light ever would. Learn their ways. Or die."
***
The days became weeks. Pain, hunger, exhaustion—they were constant companions now. Orin grew leaner, his body taut with scars and bruises. He no longer wept when glass bit his feet, no longer trembled when blindfold strikes came. He was remade—child no longer, but something harder, leaner.
Kaelris spoke little, but his gaze measured Orin with each passing day. As though deciding whether the boy was tool, weapon, or nothing at all.
And though Orin had slain in self-defense, he understood something now. Death was not accident. Death was craft. Death was patient art, carved into every nerve, every motion.
He was becoming its apprentice.
***
The training yard was little more than a square of trampled dirt behind the ruined house they occupied. The air smelled of damp earth and smoke from nearby hearths, though the sun had barely crested the eastern roofs. Orin's hands were raw from hours of dagger drills, his body still aching from the night's blindfold lessons, yet Kaelris summoned him into the yard with no word of rest.
At the center lay an assortment of wooden weapons: short swords, cudgels, spears cut down from branches, curved blades carved from oak. They looked harmless, toys almost, until Orin hefted one and felt the weight. His arms trembled under the length of a wooden sword, heavy and unforgiving despite lacking steel's edge.
Kaelris stood opposite him, stripped of cloak and hood. His frame was tall, broad-shouldered, but lean with the efficiency of a man who wasted nothing. He carried no weapon at first.
"Pick one," he said.
Orin glanced at the pile. His gaze lingered on the cudgel, blunt and ugly, but something in him chose the short sword instead. He lifted it with both hands, awkward and stiff. Kaelris's eyes narrowed slightly, as though measuring the boy's instinct.
"Good. Now listen. You are small. I am not. Do not fight me as though you are my equal. You will lose."
Orin's throat was dry. "Then how—?"
"You fight as yourself. Swift where I am slow. Slippery where I am firm. You bend where I am rigid. Your body is a weapon I cannot match. Use it."
Orin nodded, though doubt gnawed him.
Kaelris stepped forward and, with a single sweep, lifted a wooden blade from the pile. It was longer than Orin's by half. He turned it in his hand, testing balance, then settled into a stance that spoke of fluid death.
"Begin."
The clash came sudden. Kaelris lunged with speed that stole Orin's breath. The boy barely lifted his sword in time. The crack of wood against wood rattled his bones, driving him back. He staggered, gasping, and Kaelris did not relent. Another strike. Another. Each blow like a hammer, each step pushing Orin toward the dirt.
"Faster!" Kaelris barked. "Do not meet me where I am strongest. Move!"
Orin ducked beneath the next swing. His small frame darted sideways, the wooden blade grazing his hair. He scrambled low, stabbing upward at Kaelris's thigh. The assassin pivoted, parried with ease, and drove his shoulder into Orin's chest. The boy hit the dirt hard.
"Again."
Orin coughed, scrambled to his feet, sword shaking in his hands. Sweat stung his eyes though dawn had only just broken. He lunged this time, reckless, desperate to strike first. Kaelris sidestepped, hooked the boy's ankle, and sent him sprawling once more.
"Do not fight like me," Kaelris said, his voice calm, sharp as steel. "Fight like you. Use your size. Use your speed. A rat survives not by standing tall, but by crawling where the wolf cannot reach."
Orin rose again, bruised but burning. He circled, crouching low, darting left then right. Kaelris advanced, blade poised. Orin darted beneath his guard, slashing upward. Wood struck wood—Kaelris blocked—but this time Orin twisted away before the counter came, rolling through dirt and springing to his feet. His chest heaved with fire, yet a flicker of triumph sparked within.
"Better," Kaelris said. His strikes resumed, each faster, heavier. Orin ducked, rolled, leapt aside. Still the blows rained down, and still he fought.
***
The short sword gave way to a spear. Kaelris tossed it at Orin's feet, forcing him to swap. The shaft was taller than the boy, rough wood scraping his palms. Kaelris armed himself with a cudgel and advanced.
"A spear is distance," he said. "Keep me away. If I close, you die."
The first clash proved brutal. Orin thrust desperately, the spearhead snapping forward. Kaelris twisted, the cudgel knocking it aside. He surged close, nearly within striking range, but Orin scrambled back, stabbing again. The point jabbed Kaelris's ribs—not hard, but enough to make him grunt.
"Yes," Kaelris said. "Bite like a wasp. Keep biting."
Orin thrust again, again, sweat flying. His arms ached from the weight, his shoulders burned, but each thrust bought him a heartbeat more of life. Kaelris battered the shaft with his cudgel, splintering wood. He pressed closer, closer still. Orin panicked. Instead of thrusting, he jabbed low, striking Kaelris's knee. The assassin staggered a half step, then shoved the shaft aside and cuffed Orin across the temple with the flat of his cudgel.
Stars burst in the boy's vision. He collapsed to one knee, breathless.
"Better," Kaelris said again. "You think. You adapt. That is survival."
***
Next came dual blades. Kaelris tossed Orin two short wooden knives, dull yet balanced. The boy turned them in his hands, clumsy at first, uncertain where to place the weight.
Kaelris armed himself with a long sword. "Two hands against one. Fast hands. You will not overpower me. You will outpace me."
The duel began in a blur. Kaelris swung broad and hard. Orin darted in, his left knife deflecting, his right stabbing for Kaelris's ribs. Blocked. He ducked low, rolling between Kaelris's legs, slashing upward. The assassin twisted, blade sweeping down, and Orin barely leapt back in time.
The fight grew frantic. Wood cracked like thunder. Orin's knives darted quick, each strike probing for an opening. Kaelris parried with ease, but each time Orin struck, he struck again from another angle, then another. Rat-like, relentless.
At last one knife grazed Kaelris's arm. The assassin's eyes flicked with approval. He retaliated with a heavy downward strike. Orin crossed both knives to block. The force drove him to the dirt, wrists screaming, but he did not let go. He rolled, sprang back to his feet, and lunged once more.
When Kaelris finally called halt, Orin collapsed onto his knees, chest heaving, sweat pouring. His body trembled, but in his heart burned a fierce, wild fire.
"You see now?" Kaelris said, lowering his blade. "Your weakness is strength when used well. You are small. Quick. Hard to catch. Make your enemy fight a shadow, not a wall."
Orin nodded, too breathless to speak.
***
They fought with every weapon before the day's end. Wooden axes that jarred his arms with each clash. Curved blades that demanded fluidity and grace. Staffs that bruised his ribs when Kaelris swept his legs from beneath him. Each bout bled into the next, no pause, no mercy. The training yard rang with wood and breath and grunts of pain.
Kaelris never unleashed his full force, yet he fought with enough ferocity to crush Orin if the boy faltered. And Orin did falter, again and again, yet each stumble taught him something new. How to twist from a blow instead of meeting it head-on. How to strike from angles unseen. How to feint with one weapon while the other cut true.
By twilight Orin could barely stand. His arms shook, his lungs felt like fire, his feet were blistered raw. He collapsed into the dirt, vision spinning.
Kaelris stood over him, silent. Then, at last, he spoke.
"You did not win. You were not meant to. Yet you endured. That is enough for now. Strength will come. Skill will come. Endurance first."
He extended a hand. Orin grasped it, pulled himself up, swaying. His chest burned, but deep inside him, beneath the exhaustion, a strange joy pulsed. For the first time in his life, he was learning to fight not as a gutter rat, not as prey, but as something else. Something dangerous.
And though Kaelris offered no praise, only silence, Orin knew he had taken another step into the shadowed path he had chosen.
***
The morning fog clung low over the training yard, pale ribbons curling about the dirt and stones. Orin's arms still throbbed from the endless bouts of the day before, but Kaelris summoned him nonetheless. When the boy stumbled into the yard, he saw that they were not alone.
A woman stood there, tall and spare, wrapped in a dark mantle. Her hood was thrown back to reveal hair the color of raven wings, braided tight against her head. Her face was angular, unyielding, though her eyes glimmered with a sharpness Orin had only ever seen in Kaelris. At her side was a girl not much older than him—slender, with cropped hair and wary eyes, dressed in plain tunic and trousers. She clutched two wooden knives in her hands, already poised for use.
Kaelris inclined his head toward the woman. "This is Selvara."
She did not bow, only gave Orin a thin smile. "So you are the stray he took in. We wondered when he'd finally pluck one from the gutters."
Orin stiffened. Her words stung, though he tried not to show it. Kaelris ignored her barbs.
"And that is her pupil," he continued, gesturing toward the girl. "You will spar her today."
The girl's eyes flicked to him—measuring, curious, not hostile yet not friendly. She adjusted her grip on the wooden blades, lowering into a stance Orin recognized from Kaelris's teachings.
Selvara stepped forward. Her voice was cool, precise. "Children learn best by clashing with equals. Let them bruise one another, let them bleed if need be. Words teach little. Pain teaches much."
Kaelris nodded. "Begin."
***
The girl moved first, swift as a cat. Her twin knives slashed in a blur. Orin raised his wooden sword in both hands, blocking desperately. The clash jarred his wrists. She pressed hard, blades snapping left and right. Orin backed away, dirt skidding beneath his feet.
"Do not yield ground so easily!" Kaelris called.
The girl lunged, knives thrusting for his chest. Orin twisted aside, his smallness saving him. He swept his sword low toward her legs. She leapt, spinning, and her knife smacked his shoulder. Pain flared. He staggered, nearly dropping the sword.
"Poor!" Selvara's voice cut the air. "Keep your guard high! Anticipate, boy!"
Orin grit his teeth, circling. The girl smiled faintly, breath steady. She darted in again. This time Orin ducked low, rolling beneath her swing. He popped up behind her, swinging for her back. She whirled, parrying just in time. Wood cracked loud.
"Yes!" Kaelris barked. "Smaller frame—use it! Crawl where she cannot follow!"
They clashed again, blades snapping, feet pounding. The girl was faster, sharper, but Orin pressed with wild ferocity, refusing to be driven down. His sword whirled clumsily yet with desperate force. He caught her off guard once, smacking her ribs. She hissed, eyes flashing.
"Better," Selvara allowed. "Punish mistakes. Show teeth."
The fight grew fierce. Orin felt every bruise, every blister from days past, yet something in him burned brighter. The girl struck him across the thigh, and he nearly fell. He countered with a thrust that clipped her arm. They broke apart, circling, panting, eyes locked.
***
The trainers' voices lashed them like whips.
"Step lighter!" Kaelris shouted. "Do not plant your heels, Orin. Mist walks, rats scurry—do the same!"
Selvara snapped, "Quicker wrists, Myra! Don't slash wide when a stab suffices! Precision!"
The children obeyed as best they could, clashing again and again. Sweat streaked their brows. Dirt clung to their tunics. Neither gained the upper hand for long—each mistake punished by the other, each success fleeting.
At last, Kaelris raised a hand. "Enough."
They lowered weapons, chests heaving. Orin's arm was numb from blows. Myra's lip was split, a bead of blood glistening. They stared at one another, both stubborn, both unwilling to yield even in rest.
Kaelris spoke to Orin. "You did not cower. Good. But your strikes are wasteful. Every swing must count."
Selvara addressed her pupil. "You let him strike you. Twice. Sloppy. Do better next time or I'll beat the lesson into your skin."
Myra wiped her lip, eyes flashing.
***
Then Selvara turned to Kaelris. "Shall we remind them what true hands look like?"
Kaelris's mouth twitched into something not quite a smile. "Very well."
He tossed aside his sword, retrieving a pair of wooden knives. Selvara drew a curved wooden blade from her belt. They faced each other in the yard.
"Watch closely," Kaelris told the children. "This is how precision fights power. This is how silence fights storm."
Selvara's stance was coiled grace. Kaelris moved like stone given breath.
The clash came sudden and sharp. Kaelris lunged low, knives stabbing. Selvara spun, blade sweeping. Wood cracked, sparks of motion faster than eyes could follow. They circled, striking, feinting, testing. Each blow turned aside with effortless poise.
"See?" Selvara barked between strikes. "No wasted steps. Every cut measured."
Kaelris parried, countering with a flurry of stabs. "And every defense must prepare for attack. Defense alone is death."
The children watched, entranced. The trainers' duel was not rage, not brute force, but art. Blades kissed and parted, arcs of wood whistling in air. Selvara feinted left, struck right, Kaelris blocked with the flat, countered with a jab. She twisted, spun, ducked beneath his reach, blade grazing his side. He grunted, sweeping low to knock her balance. She leapt clear, landing light as a cat.
They fought not to win, but to show. To carve lessons into the air.
"See her footwork," Kaelris called, parrying. "Light as mist. Learn it, Orin!"
"See his patience," Selvara countered, slashing. "He waits for openings instead of forcing them. Learn it, Myra!"
Their weapons blurred until sound itself seemed the clash of wood. Then, with a final strike, Kaelris pressed his knives against her blade. Locked, unmoving, both straining. Then they stepped back together, lowering weapons.
"Enough," Selvara said. Her voice carried satisfaction.
Kaelris nodded. "They have seen."
The children stood silent, breathless. The fight had been more than sparring—it had been a glimpse of mastery.
Selvara turned to Myra. "That is what you must aspire to."
Kaelris looked at Orin. "And you."
Orin clenched his fists around his wooden sword. Bruised, battered, aching—but within him, fire. He wanted to move like that. To fight like that. To live in the blur between strike and counter, shadow and silence.
No clear winner, no loser. Only lessons.
And as the fog thinned and morning brightened, Orin knew his path more surely than ever. He had chosen shadow. And shadow was teaching him to fight.
***
The fog had lifted by the time Kaelris summoned Orin back to the yard. The air was sharp with cold, biting against Orin's skin, but he barely felt it. His body was sore from bruises, his shoulders raw, yet the spark inside him refused to dim. He knew today would be different. The way Kaelris's voice carried weight when he said Come told him so.
Laid out in the dirt between them were no wooden blades. These were steel—gleaming, sharpened, dangerous. Daggers, short swords, even a curved sabre. Each glimmered with a promise: one misstep, and blood would spill.
Orin's heart clenched, but his eyes widened with something closer to awe.
Kaelris stood opposite him, cloak stripped away, a dagger balanced in each hand. His gaze was calm, unreadable, but Orin could feel the gravity of what was about to begin.
"Today," Kaelris said, "you learn the power of restraint."
Orin swallowed hard.
"We fight with steel," Kaelris continued. "We fight with intent. You will swing as if to kill me. You will thrust as if to pierce my throat. Yet you will not wound. Not even a cut. You must learn to stop at the last instant, to kill without killing. Control is the mark of a true assassin. A wild blade is no assassin's tool—it is a child's tantrum dressed in steel."
He stepped closer, daggers glinting. "Understand this: restraint is harder than violence. To stop a killing blow when every muscle screams to finish it—that is mastery. Today you will test it. Fail, and either you bleed me, or I bleed you. Either way, you fail."
Orin's throat tightened, yet something in his chest swelled. He reached down, choosing a short sword from the line. Its weight dragged heavy, colder than the wooden blade he had grown used to. He held it in both hands, staring at his reflection in the steel.
Kaelris inclined his head once. "Begin."
***
The assassin struck first, quick as a viper. Orin barely raised his blade in time. Steel rang sharp, jarring his wrists. Kaelris pressed, daggers weaving in a blur, one high, one low. Orin twisted, deflected, barely managed to step aside.
The fight was different now—heavier, sharper, each clash vibrating through his bones. No forgiving wood. Each miss carried death's whisper.
Orin ducked low, sweeping his sword at Kaelris's ribs. The assassin twisted aside, the blade grazing cloth but not skin. "Good," Kaelris murmured, countering with a slash that stopped a breath from Orin's throat. "Do you feel it? That edge? Hold it. Learn it."
Orin gasped, sweat already streaking his brow though the morning was chill. He darted forward, thrusting. Kaelris parried, their blades crossing. For an instant Orin saw his own wide eyes reflected in the assassin's steel. Then Kaelris shoved him back with brutal force.
"Again!"
***
The duel unfolded like thunder. Orin struck high, low, desperate. Kaelris deflected with ease, his daggers snapping like jaws. Once, Orin's sword hovered a hair's breadth from Kaelris's neck. His arms shook with the urge to finish the cut, to slice through. But Kaelris's eyes met his, calm, commanding. Restrain. Orin yanked the blade back.
"Yes," Kaelris said. "That is the lesson. Any fool can kill. Few can stop."
They fought on. Orin's smallness became weapon again—ducking beneath Kaelris's reach, darting close where daggers tangled. He feinted left, thrust right, blade stopping at Kaelris's heart. His chest heaved, every nerve screaming to push, to pierce. He pulled back instead.
Kaelris's eyes narrowed. "Better."
***
The longer it went, the harder restraint became. Fatigue dragged at Orin's arms, dulled his judgment. Twice his sword kissed Kaelris's skin close enough to leave faint red lines. Twice Kaelris barked at him to control himself.
"Death is not mistake, Orin!" he shouted, parrying hard. "One slip and you undo months, years of work. Hold the edge, even when your lungs burn. Especially then!"
Orin staggered, panting. His hands trembled. His sword dipped, then rose again. He struck once more, his blade driving straight for Kaelris's chest. At the last instant he froze, steel quivering against the assassin's tunic. His whole body shook with restraint.
Kaelris did not move. His eyes bored into the boy's.
"Good," he whispered. "Now you begin to learn."
***
The fight stretched on, flowing from one weapon to another. Kaelris forced him to switch—daggers, curved blades, even a spear tipped with steel. Each demanded new control. Each threatened blood if Orin faltered.
With daggers, Orin darted in close, slashing for Kaelris's arm then halting a hair short. With the spear, he thrust with all his weight, stopping inches before the assassin's chest. His body screamed to follow through, but he reined it in, biting down on the wild urge to strike.
Kaelris pressed him harder. Faster strikes, heavier blows, feints designed to trick him into overcommitting. Orin failed at times—once slicing Kaelris's sleeve open, another time nearly pricking his own palm on the edge of his dagger. Each mistake earned not punishment, but harsher words.
"Restraint is a cage you build for yourself. Forge it stronger. Do not let fury break it."
Orin listened, gasping, bleeding sweat, his arms quaking. Yet with each clash he grew steadier. The blade stopped closer and closer to flesh, yet never cut. His body learned the razor's edge of control.
***
At last Kaelris lowered his weapons. Orin stood before him, sword trembling in his grasp, chest heaving, vision spinning.
"You are learning," Kaelris said. His tone was not warm, not proud, but measured, as if weighing iron. "Restraint is survival. Remember this always. You must fight as though to kill, yet stop as though life itself depends upon it. Because it does. Someday you may be ordered not to kill. Someday you may be forced to strike but not finish. Without restraint, you are not assassin—you are butcher."
Orin swallowed, nodding, though words failed him. His body sagged, but his eyes burned.
Kaelris sheathed his daggers. "Rest. You did well today."
The boy sank to the dirt, sword falling from his hand. His body was pain, yet in his chest glowed fierce triumph. He had fought with death's whisper in his hands and not faltered. Not entirely.
And though Kaelris did not smile, Orin caught the faintest glimmer in the man's eyes. Approval, rare and sharp as steel.
For the first time, Kaelris was pleased.
***
The day came gray and cold, wind sighing through broken shutters. Orin's arms still ached from the deadly lesson of restraint, his palms blistered from steel. Yet when Kaelris called him to the yard, he went without hesitation. Something in his bones told him what awaited.
Selvara stood waiting, the assassin girl at her side. Myra's cropped hair clung damp to her brow, her knives glinting in the dull light. This time they were not carved wood. They were steel—real blades, honed edges that could spill blood with the faintest mistake.
Orin's throat tightened, though his hands itched. He had tasted the razor's edge yesterday, learned to stop at the heartbeat before death. Now he would have to hold that edge against another child.
Kaelris's voice cut through the cold. "Today you face one another as assassins. Real blades. Real danger. Yet the same rule binds you: restraint. Strike as if to kill. Halt as if to spare. Fail, and you wound. Wound, and you prove yourself unfit."
Selvara's eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction. "Good. Let them learn that steel shows no mercy. We will see if they are worth sharpening."
Orin's pulse hammered. Myra's gaze met his across the yard—steady, unflinching. She gave no smile, no sneer, only readiness.
Kaelris gestured. "Begin."
***
She moved first, a blur of steel. Her daggers slashed in swift arcs, whistling through the air. Orin jerked his short sword up, parrying by instinct. The clash rang sharp, not the dull crack of wood but the live song of steel. Sparks leapt.
"Too slow!" Selvara snapped at her pupil. "Commit your strike!"
Orin ducked beneath her follow-up, dirt spraying. He thrust for her side, halting a breath from flesh. The blade hovered, trembling, and he yanked it back before it cut. Myra twisted, retaliated with a thrust that stopped an inch from his throat.
"Good!" Kaelris barked. "That is restraint. Hold it tighter!"
They circled, blades flashing, feet pounding dirt. The cold air filled with the hiss and ring of combat. Orin darted low, smallness his ally, stabbing upward. Myra parried, steel sliding along steel, their eyes locked in grim concentration.
"Do not waste breath on wide arcs, Myra!" Selvara shouted, her voice like a lash. "Precision! Precision!"
"Orin!" Kaelris roared. "Do not fight her strength. Twist, bend, escape! You are shadow, not stone!"
The children obeyed as best they could. Orin rolled clear of a downward strike, spinning behind her. He raised his blade, stopping just short of her spine. She whirled, striking for his wrist, but halted before flesh. Both breathed hard, trembling with the effort of restraint.
Sweat dripped, though the morning was cold. Every clash was a heartbeat from disaster. Orin's sword grazed Myra's sleeve, slicing fabric. She hissed, but Selvara's shout silenced her.
"Do not flinch at near death! Learn from it!"
The duel grew faster, harsher. Orin's lungs burned. His arms felt leaden, yet the fire inside him drove him on. Myra's knives flashed silver in the air. She was sharper, more disciplined, but he was quick, slippery, hard to catch. They struck and halted, struck and halted, each time holding death at bay by the thin leash of will.
"Better!" Kaelris barked when Orin stopped a thrust against her throat. "That is the line. That is mastery."
Selvara's voice rang like iron. "Do not let him press you, Myra! Control your ground, or you will bleed!"
They fought until their breath came ragged, until sweat slicked their faces and their hands trembled around hilts. No blood spilled, though steel had kissed close again and again. When Kaelris raised a hand, both children staggered back, panting, blades quivering.
Kaelris's gaze fell on Orin. "You did not wound her. You learned restraint. You are not finished, but you are walking the path."
Selvara's eyes raked her pupil. "You let him too close. Twice. He nearly slit your throat. Unacceptable."
Myra's jaw tightened, but she bowed her head.
The two trainers exchanged glances, a silent agreement passing between them. Then Selvara's lips curved into a thin smile. "Shall we show them once more how masters fight?"
Kaelris's answer was wordless. He stepped into the yard, drawing twin daggers that gleamed like captured starlight. Selvara unsheathed her curved sabre, its edge whispering of death.
"Watch closely," Kaelris told the children. "This is how restraint sharpens art."
"Watch," Selvara echoed, "and despair at your clumsiness."
They struck like storm and shadow. Kaelris lunged, daggers weaving. Selvara spun, sabre slicing arcs of silver. The yard rang with the clash of steel on steel, each strike halting a hair's breadth from flesh. They did not pull blows weakly—they drove them full force, then stopped with precision that defied breath itself.
Kaelris slashed for her throat, halting just as his blade brushed her skin. Selvara retaliated with a sweeping cut that froze a finger's width from his ribs. Sparks leapt where steel locked, then parted.
"See?" Kaelris growled as he drove her back. "Intent without completion. Control without hesitation."
"See," Selvara countered, parrying, "how precision cuts deeper than wild fury. This is restraint, not mercy."
They circled, blades flashing, moving with such speed that Orin's eyes could barely follow. Every strike carried death's promise, every halt life's fragile reprieve. Sweat beaded their brows, but their faces remained calm, expressions honed as steel.
The children watched in silence, chests still heaving from their own bout. What they saw was not play, not sparring, but artistry—two killers dancing on the edge of ruin, blades stopping where instinct screamed to finish.
At last, Selvara pressed her sabre to Kaelris's chest. He held both daggers an inch from her throat. Neither moved. Both breathed steady. Then, together, they lowered blades.
Kaelris turned to Orin. "That is what you must become. To kill when commanded. To stop when commanded. Restraint and violence, balanced as one."
Selvara's gaze swept her pupil. "What you saw is mastery. What you gave was child's play. Remember that gulf. And cross it."
The yard fell silent but for the children's ragged breaths. Orin's arms trembled, yet within his chest something burned brighter than ever. He had walked with death again and returned uncut. He had seen what mastery was and knew how far the path stretched.
Kaelris's voice came low, final. "You chose this life, Orin. Now you see it. Steel will not forgive. Shadows will not forgive. Only discipline will save you."
Orin bowed his head, gripping his sword with aching hands. He had not won, had not lost. There were no victories here. Only lessons.
And the lesson of restraint, of walking the razor's edge, had been carved into him forever.