The Grey Barrens didn't have any seasons; it only had varying degrees of death.
Kavik stood over a slab of grey stone that served as a table, his breath escaping his lips in thick puffs of cold exhale. He observed what was in front of him: a bound mountain stag.
Beside it were newly filed surgical blades and knives, with a bottle of vinegar to sterilize himself. His mission was to kill the stag without thinking twice.
Two years of isolation had refined him. He was eighteen now, yet he still possessed that boyish slenderness that made him look rather younger and less rebellious. Yet there was something about him: he no longer looked like the broken boy from Ruinhold. He looked…refined.
That was it.
He stared at the mountain stag with compassion. He wanted to kill those who oppressed him; not an helpless animal.
The animal was far too beautiful for what was about to happen to it. It was a mass of silver-grey fur with panicked huffing breaths and pleading eyes, its antlers tangled in a thicket of iron-vines. Kavik stood five feet away, feeling the heavy, rhythmic thud of his own heart.
"You're staring at it like you're waiting for it to ask you to dance," Daron said without enthusiasm.
He wasn't barking orders; he sounded like a man who had spent too much time watching a pot that refused to boil. He passed a thin surgical knife to Kavik across the table.
"You've studied the human body for over months now, child. You can draw every nerve in that beast's body with your eyes closed. Pick up the knife."
Kavik reached for the blade. His fingers brushed the cold metal, and for the first time in a very long while, he'd felt the weight of the blade in his hand. It felt burdening.
After this, he'd be a killer. For all of his strategies of ruthlessly sacrificing civilians and battalions while he plotted with Daron, it was all bluff. He'd learnt to fight with weapons and with words, but actually taking a life was another thing.
Shivers traveled down his spine as he tightened his grip around his knife.
"The animal isn't an enemy, Uncle," Kavik said, his voice a soft whisper against the biting wind. "There is no strategic gain here. It's just... life."
"On a battlefield, the man across from you is just life, too," Daron replied, leaning against a frost-covered cedar. "He has a mother, a name, and a favorite bowl he eats his soup from. If you wait for 'Fighting Mode' to take over, you're just a dog on a leash. A fighter kills because it is the next logical step. Now, find the notch child."
Kavik brought the knife to the stag's neck. He wanted to give it a swift death while reducing the bleeding, but he'd been too hesitant, hence clumsy too.
The stag thrashed with a wet, pathetic sound escaping its throat. Kavik felt a wave of revulsion—both at his cowardice and the stag's misfortune. He hated it all.
He placed a hand on the animal's neck clumsily, feeling the pulse of the desperate beast against his hands.
In his mind, the diagram appeared—the atlas vertebra, the precise millimeter where the breath was severed from the body. His hand trembled one last time before he steeled himself.
He didn't swing; he simply pressed his weight into the blade.
The stag didn't even scream. Its legs simply folded. The light in its eyes didn't flicker; it just vanished. Kavik stayed over the slab for a long moment, his hand still resting on the cooling fur, feeling the sudden, heavy hanging silence of death.
Slowly, the heartbeat of the stag became faint until there was no sign of life.
"Look at that," Daron remarked, walking over. "You didn't even ruin the hide. You're a natural-born butcher, child. Don't look so miserable."
"I feel like I just closed a book I wasn't finished reading," Kavik muttered, wiping his hand on the snow.
"That's how it's meant to feel. It's the burden of taking something as sacred as life," Daron said, his voice surprisingly gentle and distant. "The feeling of knowing yours was the last face they say before taking their last breath would forever haunt you, and the look of helplessness in their eyes would never fade in your mind but that is your reality now."
"I wish it was different," Kavik finally said after a long silence, the beautiful stag's eyes still registered in his mind.
"We all do, child." Daron patted Kavik's shoulder gently, giving him as much emotional support as he needed. He truly cared for his nephew. He loved him as his own, Kavik realized.
After a while, Daron urged him to get back into the house. "Let's go warm up with ginger tea, child. And some venison too."
Kavik couldn't sleep throughout that night. Not with Zod's murderous intent stronger than ever and the dead stag's eyes haunting his dreams in different variations.
The Phantom Flame had been pulling him closer for the past few weeks, and it was getting tougher to ignore. Sometimes, he'd stab himself deep in the thigh to resist the urge.
His hands itched for the release of the flame so, he meditated instead and finally fell asleep.
His second 'kill mission' wasn't a stag. It was a mountain wolf, old and mangy, that had been raiding the Barrens for a while. Daron had caught it in a leg-trap, and now it snarled with pure malice and a killing intent.
"This one actually wants to eat you," Daron said amusingly, handed Kavik a slightly heavier hunting knife. "Does that make it easier?"
Kavik looked at the wolf. He didn't feel the same spiritual weight he had with the stag, but his hands were still trembling around the hilt. "No. It just makes it louder."
"Tactical scenario," Daron prompted, crossing his arms. "The wolf is a scout. If he barks, the pack descends. You have three seconds to ensure total silence. Go."
Kavik didn't hesitate as long this time. He stepped into the wolf's reach, dodging a desperate snap of yellow teeth. He moved with a fluid, slender grace that made it look like his stroke could've been a blur.
He didn't go for the neck; he went for the heart, sliding the blade between the third and fourth ribs with the precision of a perfectly trained killer.
The wolf let out a sharp huff and went still. Kavik pulled the blade out calmly, but his breathing was still shallow and unsteady.
"Two seconds," Daron noted, checking an invisible watch on his wrist. "A bit sloppy on the exit, though. You got blood on your sleeve. Alaric would've hung you over a fire."
Kavik looked at the dark stain on his tunic. "No, Alaric would've hung you over the fire for making me kill them." Kavik chuckled darkly. "He always was an advocate for animals right."
Kavik and Daron normalized petty gossiping over their friends—Daron's friends, actually—Alaric and Rowland, the former who was a snobbish vegetarian and a swift fighter. Kavik suspected something might be going on between them—Daron and Alaric—but he never probed.
Daron chuckled dryly. "Fair point. But you're getting swifter. The hesitation is moved from your arm to your eyes. That's progress."
"It doesn't feel like progress," Kavik said, cleaning the blade with a handful of forage. "It feels like I'm losing the ability to be surprised by death."
"That," Daron said, "is exactly the point. If death surprises you, it kills you. Now, get that carcass away from the hut. It smells like wet dog and bad decisions."
"You have an opinion about bad decisions? You're the one training a misanthropic child to kill, that is a bad decision!" Kavik yelled from a distance and hurled a snowball playfully at Daron.
By the end of the month, the snow had turned to a slushy, miserable grey.
They were in a room where the air was thick with the smell of boiling herbs and metals.
Kavik was hunched over a mortar and pestle, his fingers stained purple—not with the Phantom Flame, but from belladonna berries he was grinding for an alchemical formula.
The knowledge of Alchemy, as Daron had said when he introduced Kavik to herbs, was a skillset worthy of a good fighter. Alchemy could heal, kill faster or do both if used properly. But Kavik hated the smell of herbs; they made him retch.
"You're brooding again," Daron said, tossing a small, live forest grouse onto the table. The bird's wings were clipped, and it hopped about with a confused chirp.
Kavik didn't bother to look up. "I'm not brooding. I'm focusing."
"Kill the bird. One finger. Break the neck. No blade."
Kavik finally looked up. He looked at the bird, then at Daron. "This is getting ridiculous. I've killed a stag and a wolf. I think I've proven I can end a life."
"You've proven you can kill when it's a 'task,'" Daron countered, leaning over the table. "I want to see if you can do it while we're making this potion. I want to see if you can do it while you're pondering over Classics and Philosophy. If you can't kill while your mind is elsewhere, you'll freeze when a Mind Wielder starts playing with your head."
Kavik reached out. His hand didn't tremble this time, but there was a stiffness in his shoulders that betrayed his disgust. He caught the bird in a gentle yet firm grip.
"Jillian says that love is the foundation of the state," Kavik stated, his voice perfectly level as he adjusted his thumb against the bird's tiny skull. "But he fails to mention that the foundation is built on the bones of things that were 'necessary' to lose."
Snap.
He didn't even pause his sentence. He set the dead bird aside and went back to grinding the berries. "The herbs are ready. Should I add the moon-lily now, or wait for the solution to clear?"
Daron went silent. He looked at the bird, then at the boy who hadn't even blinked before taking a life. There was a flicker of something like pride in Daron's eyes, but it was overshadowed by a deep, lingering sadness.
He knew what he'd done. His mind flashed back to when Kavik had told him training him to kill was a bad decision. It had never hit him before like it did now. Kavik was too skilled, too accurate, too gracious a killer. And yet, he'd do it again because the world wasn't fair to innocent people. He had to toughen him up.
"Wait for it to clear," Daron said quietly. "And child?"
"Yes, Uncle?"
"Go wash your hands. Not because of the blood. Just... wash them."
Kavik stood up, his slender frame casting a long shadow against the stone wall before striding away. "The water doesn't seem to do much anymore."
That night, Daron and Kavik sat by the fire, a rare bottle of fermented plum wine between them. The tension of the day's "lessons" had softened into a comfortable, weary silence.
"You're getting too good at the art of taking a life, child," Daron said, taking a swig of the wine and wincing at the sourness. "You're starting to look at the world like a set of numbers. It's effective, but it's lonely."
Kavik leaned back, staring into the orange embers. "I don't have the luxury of being an ordinary person, remember? You're the one who told me that a skilled fighter is a ghost that hasn't realized he's dead yet."
"I say a lot of things when I'm cranky," Daron grumbled, passing the bottle. "But look at you. Two years ago, you couldn't stand the sight of a bruised knee. Now, you're debating the moral failings of dead philosophers while snapping necks. I'm a hell of a teacher."
Kavik took a sip of the wine, his face scrunching up. "This is terrible. Did you ferment this in an old boot?"
"It's an acquired taste. Like a murder."
Kavik actually laughed—a small, genuine sound that made him look boyish again but only for a second. "You're a terrible person, Uncle."
"And you're a terrible nephew for pointing it out," Daron replied, a smirk playing on his lips.
He reached out and ruffled Kavik's hair, a rare gesture of affection that caught Kavik off guard. "But you're a damn fine student. Tomorrow, we start the heavy lifting. No more birds. No more stags."
Kavik's smile faded slightly. "What's tomorrow?"
Daron looked at the purple star in the sky, dormant but waiting. He knew something was coming. And somehow, it was tied to Kavik. He needed him ready for anything and everything.
"Tomorrow, we see if we can wield the Flame without burning the house down. Get some sleep, child. You're going to need your Divine Spark for this one."
Kavik stared in awe as understanding hit him. He'd gone two years without consciously wielding the Phantom Flame that he'd almost forgotten its existence, save for the random reminder of King Zod's presence. It should've felt like a dream come true—it did feel like a dream come true, actually. After all, that was the major reason why he'd been studying before.
But now, knowing more about the Phantom Flame and the world, there was a hanging silence on whether or not Kavik still wanted unrestricted access to something as profoundly powerful as the Phantom Flame.
He stood up and headed back to the house. He felt the weight of the whole situation—the stag, the wolf, the bird—all sitting in the back of his mind like a ledger that wouldn't balance.
He was sharper, smarter, and stronger. He was becoming exactly what the Empire feared.
And as he closed his eyes, he wondered if there was anything left of the boy who used to read poetry in the gardens of Ruinhold.