The port district of Stormvale reeked of rotten fish, salt, and stale beer—a combination that would have sent any noble spinning on their heels and fleeing. But four hooded figures strode through the narrow streets without hesitation, dressed like common sailors in threadbare cloaks and mud-caked boots that concealed their true origins.
Kael pulled his hood lower, keeping his face in shadows as he led the group through alleys that stank of urine and desperation. At his side, Aldric walked with his hand resting casually on the pommel of his hidden sword beneath the cloak, ever ready. Behind them, Davos and Mika followed with less certain steps.
"Are you sure this will work?" Davos muttered, adjusting his own hood. The scar on his cheek gave him a harder look than he probably felt. "I feel ridiculous."
"That's the point," Kael replied without turning. "No one expects nobles to dress like drunken sailors."
"And if they recognize us anyway?" Mika asked, his voice tense. He was slimmer than Davos, quieter, and clearly out of his element.
"That's why Aldric is armed."
Aldric grunted something that might have been a laugh or disgust.
"I still don't get why we didn't bring more guards. Three men—"
"Four," Kael corrected.
"Three and a half," Aldric adjusted in a tone that suggested Kael didn't fully count. "To walk into a corrupt merchant's territory. It's stupid."
"It's necessary. We need discretion, not a military parade."
They rounded a corner, and there it was: "The Rusted Anchor," a two-story building that leaned slightly to one side like a perpetual drunk. Yellowish light filtered through grimy windows, and the sound of voices and laughter spilled from the half-open door.
Kael stopped half a block away, observing.
Through a second-floor window, he spotted what he was looking for: a figure dressed far too finely for this place. Ferris. Even from a distance, Kael could see the quality of his tunic, the gleam of rings on his fingers as he gestured while speaking to someone out of sight.
'An entrepreneur,' Kael thought, frowning. 'Not a warrior. Not a street criminal. A businessman who could walk in noble circles if he wanted.'
'So why is he here? Why scam my family with crude tricks like stones in the grain?'
Something didn't add up. But he had no time to probe deeper mysteries.
"He's upstairs," Kael said simply. "Second floor. Probably his office."
"Office?" Davos repeated. "In a dive bar?"
"The best dirty deals are done in the worst places," Kael replied, starting toward the entrance. "Come on. And remember: let me talk first."
The interior of The Rusted Anchor was exactly what Kael expected: dark, noisy, packed with sailors and mercenaries drinking like the world was ending tomorrow. The air was thick with cheap tobacco smoke and the sour stench of spilled beer that had dried into the wood over years.
No one looked twice. Four more hooded figures in a sea of people who preferred not to be seen.
Kael navigated between the tables toward the stairs at the back. A big man with knife scars crisscrossing his face stood there, blocking access.
"Private," he growled, crossing arms the size of tree trunks.
"I need to see Ferris."
"Not without an appointment."
Kael stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"Tell him someone knows about the stones. In the grain."
The guard blinked. Just a second of confusion—but it was enough.
"Wait here."
He lumbered up the stairs. Kael waited, aware of Aldric tensing behind him, of Davos and Mika exchanging nervous glances.
Two minutes later, the guard came down.
"Upstairs. Second door on the left. But if you try anything—"
"We won't try anything," Kael lied.
The stairs creaked with every step. The second floor was quieter, with narrow hallways and closed doors that likely led to rooms where deals were made that no one wanted seen in daylight.
The second door on the left was ajar.
Kael pushed it open.
The office was surprisingly orderly: a solid wooden desk, shelves with neatly filed documents, even a small window with curtains that weren't complete rags. Ferris sat behind the desk, with six men standing around the room—guards trying to look professional but carrying that nervous air of underpaid mercenaries.
Ferris himself was exactly as Kael had seen from outside: in his fifties, well-fed, dressed in a successful merchant's tunic. Rings on every finger. A face that had learned to smile while stabbing in the back.
He looked at Kael with curiosity, not recognition.
"And you are?" he asked in a voice that pretended authority.
Kael closed the door behind him. Aldric, Davos, and Mika entered, crowding the small space. Ferris's guards tensed immediately.
Instead of answering, Kael removed his cloak with a deliberate motion.
The emblem of House Drayvar—a lightning bolt piercing a spear—was embroidered in silver on his black tunic, impossible to miss even in the dim light.
The shock on Ferris's face was instant. His eyes widened, jaw tightening. But he recovered fast—faster than Kael expected.
"I see," he said slowly, recomposing his expression into something more neutral. Almost... amused. "A Drayvar. What business does the young lord have with me?"
"Straight to the point," Kael replied, approaching the desk without fear. "I want all the information. Everything you've been doing. The stones in the grain. The bribes to the inspectors. The names of your contacts."
The guards shifted, hands going to swords.
Ferris raised a hand, stopping them. He was still smiling, but there was something cold in his eyes now.
"And I want to know," Kael continued, holding his gaze, "who's really behind this."
Silence.
Ferris leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers over his stomach.
"You're very young to be playing these games, boy."
"And you're very clever to pretend ignorance. Talk."
One of the guards stepped forward, hand on his sword pommel.
"Boss? Want us to handle this?"
Ferris didn't answer right away. He studied Kael with a merchant's eyes calculating the value of goods.
"The young lord clearly doesn't understand his position," he said finally. "Do you think you can walk in here and demand? Do you know how many 'nobles' have tried to intimidate me before?"
"The difference," Kael said in a voice that didn't waver, "is that I'm not intimidating. I'm offering an out. Confess, give me names, and maybe you survive this."
Ferris laughed—a genuine sound that echoed in the small office.
"Or what? A nine-year-old boy will kill me?"
"No," Kael replied. "But he will."
He pointed to Aldric.
The three nearest guards lunged.
What followed lasted three seconds.
Aldric moved—not fast, but efficient. His sword slid from its sheath with a metallic hiss. The first guard didn't even have time to scream before steel sliced through his throat. Hot, red blood arced out, impossible to ignore, splattering the wall.
The second guard managed to draw. Useless. Aldric spun, his blade finding exposed neck with a butcher's precision.
The third guard backed up, raising his hands.
It didn't matter.
Aldric's sword found him anyway, opening his throat with a cut that sounded wet and final.
Three bodies dropped almost simultaneously.
The other three guards froze, eyes wide, hands trembling on weapons they suddenly didn't want to draw.
Ferris had backed against the wall, red spots splattering his expensive tunic.
The silence was absolute except for the steady drip of blood hitting the wooden floor.
Kael hadn't blinked. He looked at the bodies with the same expression he might give documents on his father's desk.
"Now," he said in a voice perfectly calm, "do you want to reconsider?"
Ferris opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes darted from the bodies to Kael to Aldric—who was wiping his sword with a rag as if this were a Tuesday routine.
And then, surprisingly, Ferris... smiled.
It wasn't a smile of fear. It was the smile of someone who had just played their winning card.
"Very well, young man," he said, his voice regaining composure with a speed that would have been impressive if it weren't so unsettling. "I see you've come prepared. Impressive, truly."
He stepped away from the wall, smoothing his tunic as if the bloodstains were just dust.
"But there's something," he continued, walking toward his desk with measured steps, "that you don't understand about the world."
He opened a drawer. Pulled out a goblet. Poured himself wine with a hand that didn't shake.
"Always," he said, taking a sip, "ALWAYS, there's someone stronger."
And as if he'd been waiting for that exact moment, a side door that Kael hadn't even noticed opened.
The pressure changed immediately.
It wasn't subtle. It was like the air before a storm, like the weight of the ocean pressing down from above. Everyone in the room felt it—that primal recognition of a predator entering the space.
The man who stepped in was tall, maybe thirty-five, with a face that had seen too many battles to still be called handsome. Scars crisscrossed his jaw. His hair was cropped close. He wore simple but clean clothes, and the sword at his side wasn't ornamental—it was a tool of the trade, used and maintained with a professional's care.
And his aura.
Kael felt it like a physical blow. Master. First layer, perhaps, but definitely a Master.
Aldric stepped forward immediately, placing himself between Kael and the newcomer.
"Who the hell are you?" he growled, but there was tension in his voice that hadn't been there even when he slit three throats.
The man didn't answer.
He just laughed—a low, rough sound that was somehow more threatening than any verbal threat.
Ferris, behind his desk, took another sip of wine.
"Allow me to introduce my insurance, young man. Did you think a businessman wouldn't have real protection?"
The man—Kael didn't know his name yet—drew his sword in an almost lazy motion.
"How many?" he asked in a voice that dragged consonants like speaking was a bore.
"All except the kid," Ferris replied. "I want him alive. He has value."
"Mmm."
And he attacked.
There was no warning. No dramatic stance. Just an explosion of movement that turned the space between him and Aldric into a blur.
Aldric blocked—just barely. The impact reverberated up his arms, sending him staggering back. His blue electric Aether bloomed around his sword, intensifying as he channeled everything he had.
It wasn't enough.
The stranger pressed with a combination that was half dance, half execution. Each strike pushed Aldric further back. Each block made the steel vibrate until Kael thought the sword would shatter.
The office erupted into violence.
Ferris's desk—solid wood that had likely survived a decade—split in two when Aldric was slammed against it. Documents flew like snow. Shelves tore from the wall in a sweep of energy that sent even the surviving guards fleeing down the stairs, screaming.
Davos and Mika had flattened themselves against the back wall, eyes wide with terror.
And Kael... Kael watched. Calculating. Processing.
'First-layer Master. Aldric is a second-layer Knight. The difference is... it's like an adult against a child. No contest.'
Aldric blocked a high strike. Counterattacked low. The stranger dodged effortlessly, then kicked—not with Aether amplification, just raw leg power—and sent Aldric flying through what remained of the desk.
Wood cracked. Aldric coughed blood.
"Broken rib," the stranger diagnosed in an almost conversational tone. "Maybe two. Want to keep going, or have you got the point?"
Aldric pushed himself up, sword still in hand but shaking.
"Go... to hell..."
"Brave but a goddamn idiot."
He raised his sword for the finishing blow—
And Davos moved.
Kael saw it almost in slow motion. Davos peeling from his spot against the wall. Davos running—not toward the exit but forward. Davos stepping between the fallen Aldric and the Master with his sword raised.
"No," he said in a voice that trembled but held firm. "You... you won't get near him."
The Master paused, almost surprised.
"Kid," he said, lowering his sword marginally. "This isn't your fight."
"I don't care." Davos raised his own sword—hands shaking, stance all wrong, but there. Standing. "He's my friend."
"Davos," Kael said, his voice louder than it had been all night. "Stand down."
"No."
One word. Firm. Final.
The scar on his cheek—earned in training, a symbol of his determination to become a knight someday—seemed darker in the dim light.
And the Master... sighed.
"Brave," he repeated. "But truly stupid."
Then he moved.
Too fast. Faster than Davos—a twelve-year-old with three months of real training—could ever track.
His arm punched through Davos's chest.
Kael heard the wet, crunching sound, impossibly loud.
And then the Master pulled back, and in his hand was—
'No. No no no—'
Davos's heart. Literally. Still beating in his closed fist.
Davos looked down. Looked at the hole in his chest. Looked at Kael.
His lips moved, forming words that had no breath to escape.
Then he fell.
Like a puppet with its strings cut, he collapsed into a pool of blood that spread too fast, too red, too real.
The Master dropped the heart with a wet thud that Kael knew he'd hear in nightmares.
He wiped his hand on his pants like he'd just swatted an annoying mosquito.
Silence.
Absolute.
Mika was crying—silent sobs that wracked his entire body. Aldric was trying to rise and failing, staring at Davos's body with total horror.
And Kael...
'I didn't calculate this.'
'It wasn't in the plan. Davos wasn't supposed to—he couldn't—'
'He's dead. My friend is dead. For following me. For trusting me.'
'When was the last time he called me shorty? A week? Two? He stopped teasing because I started improving. Because we were... we were friends.'
'And now he has a hole where his heart should be and it's MY FAULT—'
The Master turned to Kael, wiping his sword.
"Your turn, little Drayvar."
He started walking. Measured steps. No rush.
And Kael's mind—which had been frozen in shock, in horror, in the weight of what he'd just witnessed—suddenly exploded into frantic activity.
'NO. No time for grief. No time for guilt. Survive FIRST. Process LATER.'
'Think. THINK. Why is he here? First-layer Master. He could be in armies. He could be guarding real nobles. Why work for Ferris?'
'Ferris isn't worth this. He's not important enough. There has to be more. A crack. Something I can—'
"Wait."
The word slipped out before he could fully think it.
The Master stopped three meters away. Raised an eyebrow.
"'Wait'? That's all you've got?"
"I have a proposal."
Silence. Then the Master... laughed. Genuine laughter that sounded almost cheerful.
"Alright, kid. Talk. You've entertained me so far."
Kael took a deep, controlled breath, forcing his voice to stay steady.
"Work for me."
Absolute silence. Even Ferris set down his goblet.
"WHAT?" the merchant exploded.
The Master narrowed his eyes. Not angry. Curious.
"Explain. Fast."
"I already sent word where I was going," Kael lied. "If anything happens to me, several knights will come. House Drayvar doesn't let its blood's deaths go uninvestigated."
"And?"
"And you're too strong to be working for this shit."
He pointed at Ferris.
"You're a Master. First layer, if I'm reading your aura right. You could have real position, respect, purpose. And instead, you're here, in a dive bar in the port district, protecting a worm who scams grain with tricks fit for a street thief."
The Master didn't respond. But he didn't attack either.
Kael pressed.
"Right now, I have nothing to offer you except this: I'm Drayvar. Blood of a Great House. I'm not the heir, not even the favorite. But I'm not nobody."
He took a step forward, ignoring how his legs trembled.
"Someday, I'll take what's mine. I don't know when. I don't know how yet. But I will. And when I do, I'll need men who can do the hard things. Strong men. Loyal ones."
He held the Master's gaze—gray eyes against gray, a nine-year-old boy against a seasoned killer.
"Give me your strength now, and when my time comes, you'll gain far more than a corrupt merchant's coins. You'll gain purpose. Position. A place in something that matters."
Ferris exploded from his spot, bleeding from where a wood shard had cut him during the fight.
"GARETH!" he shouted, voice cracking. "KILL that damn kid and let's get out of here! NOW! I'll pay you double! TRIPLE!"
Then the Master—Gareth—turned to look at Ferris.
And smiled.
It wasn't a friendly smile.
"Double?" he asked in a conversational tone. "From the shit salary you already pay me?"
"TRIPLE! Name your price!"
"You know what, kid?" Gareth said, still looking at Ferris. "You're right. This IS a shit job."
He walked toward the merchant. Ferris backed up, tripping over debris.
"Gareth... we've worked together two years... we have history..."
"History," Gareth repeated. "Yeah. History of you treating me like hired muscle. History of shit jobs protecting shit businesses in shit places."
He raised his sword.
"Wait—"
One motion. Clean. Efficient.
Ferris's head separated from his shoulders with a sound that was less dramatic than Kael expected—just a wet slice—and then the body fell one way, the head rolling the other.
Gareth sheathed his sword, turned to Kael.
"Alright, kid. You win." His voice was flat, emotionless. "But if you don't deliver on what you promise—if this turns out to be wasted time—I'll kill you when you least expect it. Understood?"
"Understood," Kael replied, surprised his voice didn't shake.
Gareth walked toward the side door he'd entered through. He paused in the threshold.
"What's your name?" Kael asked.
The man glanced over his shoulder.
"Gareth," he said simply. "We'll meet again, young Drayvar. Don't make me regret this."
And he vanished into the darkness, leaving only the sound of his footsteps descending hidden stairs.
Kael stood in the midst of the wreckage.
Office destroyed. Desk splintered. Walls cracked. Blood—so much blood—soaking the wood and documents and curtains.
Four bodies. No, five.
Three guards, throats slit.
Ferris, decapitated.
And Davos.
Davos with a hole in his chest, eyes open staring at nothing, scar on his cheek that would never heal because he would never age because he was DEAD.
Voices from below. Shouts. Running footsteps.
"Call the guard!"
"There's blood on the stairs!"
"GUARDS!"
Kael looked at Aldric—semi-conscious, bleeding. At Mika—shaking, traumatized, useless. At Davos—dead.
And thought, with a clarity that would have been funny if it weren't so horrible:
'Great. Perfect. Wonderful.'
'A destroyed office. Five corpses. My friend with his chest ripped open. A knight half-dead. A witness in shock. And city guards incoming.'
'And how the hell do I explain THIS?'
He had no time to devise an answer before the door exploded open.
Six city guards burst in with swords drawn, stopping dead at the scene.
"What... what the hell—"
One vomited immediately.
Another just stared, face pale.
The captain—an older man with scars that spoke of real experience—assessed the situation with eyes that had seen too much to be easily shocked.
"Secure the scene," he ordered in a firm voice. "And someone get the scribe. We're going to need detailed reports."
He turned to Kael—splattered with blood that wasn't his, Drayvar emblem clearly visible on his tunic, standing among the dead with an expression of calm that was utterly unnatural for the situation.
"Who the hell are you, kid?"
Kael lifted his chin, forcing himself to meet the captain's eyes without blinking.
"My name is Kael Drayvar," he said in a voice that didn't tremble—not yet. "And I need to speak to whoever's in charge of the district. Immediately."
The captain looked around the carnage once more. Looked at the Drayvar emblem. Looked at Kael.
"Oh," he said slowly. "This is going to be trouble."
Kael didn't respond.
He just looked at Davos one last time—at the boy who had stopped calling him shorty, who had joked about his height, who had stood by him through three months of brutal training.
At the friend who had died for following him.
And thought, with a coldness that scared him:
'I'm sorry, Davos. But I don't have time to cry yet.'
'Survive first.'
'Grieve later.'
Outside, more guards were arriving. Voices shouting. The port district awakening to violence that couldn't be ignored.
And Kael Drayvar—nine years old, covered in blood, standing among the dead—waited for the consequences he knew were coming.
But not regret.
Not yet.
Maybe never.