Elliot was four years old when he finally touched the sword.
It wasn't dramatic.
No thunder. No sudden surge of power. Just a quiet afternoon, the house steeped in the warmth of late sunlight. Victoria was out with Paige, the servants occupied elsewhere. Michael had gone to the training yard behind the house, leaving his study door ajar.
Elliot stood in the hallway, heart pounding.
He knew this feeling too well.
The pull.
The same one that had guided his hands toward wallets and purses in another life. The same whisper that said take it now, think later.
His fingers curled into fists.
Not like that, he told himself.
Not anymore.
He stepped into the study.
Dust motes floated lazily in the air. The sword rested where it always had, wrapped and silent. Up close, Elliot could feel it—an almost imperceptible hum, like a held breath.
He reached out.
The cloth was rough beneath his fingers. He stopped there. Didn't lift it. Didn't draw the blade.
Instead, he sat down in front of it, cross-legged on the floor.
"I won't steal you," he whispered, the words barely more than a thought. "If I want you… I'll earn you."
The hum deepened.
Not approval.
Acknowledgment.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Elliot froze.
Michael stood in the doorway, arms crossed. His face was unreadable.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"You didn't take it," Michael said finally.
Elliot nodded once.
Michael exhaled slowly and stepped into the room, kneeling beside him. He unwrapped the cloth just enough to reveal the hilt.
"This sword," Michael said, "has killed monsters that could have wiped this town from the map."
Elliot listened, rapt.
"It has also killed men," Michael continued. "Men who thought strength gave them the right to take."
His eyes met Elliot's.
"That's why I stopped."
Elliot's chest tightened.
"Why keep it?" he asked quietly.
Michael looked away.
"Because part of me still believes in what it represents," he said. "And part of me is afraid you will too."
The honesty surprised them both.
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Elliot spoke.
"I want to learn," he said. "Not to take. To… deserve."
Michael studied him for a long time. Longer than any four-year-old deserved.
"You're too young," he said at last.
Elliot nodded.
"I'll wait."
That answer unsettled Michael more than any tantrum would have.
Later that night, Michael sat alone with the sword laid bare across his knees. He traced the nicks along its edge, each one a memory.
Monsters were changing.
Growing larger. Smarter. More violent.
The world felt wrong.
And now his son—quiet, watchful, carrying something heavy behind his eyes—wanted to walk the same path.
Michael closed his eyes.
He prayed he was strong enough to say no.
End of Chapter 8