The fire in the fireplace had already dwindled to embers when Léo broke the silence.
— Let's go to a Swordmaster academy.
Thom lifted his eyes from the documents he was studying. Not with surprise, but with that measured expression Dathanham was beginning to recognize — that of a man weighing each word before it left his mouth.
— The only academy in this region is in Sátira — Thom said, his voice as calm as the crackling embers. — And it is… rigorous. Demanding. They test the blood, Léo. Literally. Lineage-verification magic. They would discover you are commoners before you even pass through the gates.
Dathanham sat up straighter. The term "commoners" still hurt — not as an insult, but as a reminder. Commoners. Worms. Insects. That was what Nika had been to them.
Léo did not flinch.
— Then we go to Sátira.
— Léo…
— Dathanham doesn't have the capacity to compete with true prodigies — Léo cut in, his voice gaining a practical coldness that even made Thom hesitate. — In Sátira, we'll have a bishop's recommendation. A sacred recommendation. Who would ignore that? Who would dare doubt the word of a servant of the Goddess Eirene?
Thom studied the teenager's face. His eyes — as blue as Nika's — showed no doubt. Only calculation. Strategy. A determination as sharp as the blade that had killed his sister.
The bishop took a deep breath. The cabin's air smelled of ashes and memories.
— And the etiquette? — he asked, already capitulating. — The posture? The way of speaking? A commoner walks as if carrying weight. A noble walks as if the world carries their weight.
Léo smiled — a small, bitter smile.
— Then teach us.
Dathanham swallowed. His pride was a knot in his throat, a wounded animal growling before death. He looked at his hands — child's hands that carried firewood, not swords. Hands that had touched Nika's cold face.
And he swallowed his pride.
He nodded.
— I will learn.
Thom crossed his arms, his dark eyes fixed on Léo.
— So what's the full plan, then? You speak of academy, letters, etiquette. But what's the plan, Léo?
Léo looked first at Dathanham, then at Thom.
— I'm going to become a believer.
The declaration echoed in the silent cabin.
— And Dathanham, the knight — Léo continued. — And we need a guide. Someone who knows the way. Literally.
The intent was clear as glass. Léo would enter the church — not for faith, but for position. For influence. For access to records, information, locked rooms where secrets were kept. While Dathanham would learn to kill outside, Léo would learn to manipulate inside.
Thom closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, there was heavy acceptance in them.
— So be it — he said. — But first, the detour.
The road to Sátira was a river of dust and stones. Dathanham walked between Thom and Léo, his eyes drinking in a world that had existed only in Nika's stories before.
Trees that touch the sky, she used to say, her fingers tracing invisible arcs in the dark cabin air. Birds that sing in colors. Rivers that glow at night like fairy hair.
He saw the trees now. The birds. The river that ran alongside the road, its waters brown and muddy, not shining. But they were real. And every new thing his eyes saw was a twisted knife: Nika should be seeing this too.
Léo walked beside him, silent. His eyes did not wander across the landscape. They scanned. Assessed. Calculated distances, hiding spots, escape routes.
Let me see if I got this, big brother — Dathanham finally said, his voice small in the vastness of the road. — We are Thom's adopted children. And we come from a family of… decayed nobles?
Léo did not look at him.
— That's right — he replied, dryly. — No one questions a poor, nameless noble family. It's a picturesque tragedy. Fallen nobility is still nobility. And Thom will help us forge the proof.
He said the last part with an almost playful tone. A dry, dark humor that Dathanham was beginning to recognize as Léo's emotional armor.
Thom walked ahead, his steps measured. In his thoughts, he traced and retraced the path like a man playing chess against himself. Is this the right way? Taking these children to the heart of the system that killed his sister? Dressing them in the colors of the enemy?
And the answer, always the same: It doesn't matter. Even if it isn't the right way, I will protect them. Until the end.
— We'll take a detour — Thom announced, pointing to an almost invisible path to the left. — There's a place we need to visit first.
The path narrowed, becoming a trail winding through a dense forest. The air changed — fresher, humid, smelling of wet earth and moss. And then the sound arrived: a soft, constant roar.
The waterfall was not large, but beautiful. A veil of crystal-clear water plunging into a clear lake surrounded by smooth stones. Thom did not stop to admire. He walked straight into the curtain of water, disappearing behind it.
Léo followed, then Dathanham.
Behind the waterfall, the world changed again. Silence, except for the muffled roar of the water. Cool twilight. And a house. Not a cabin — a solid stone house, small, almost hidden in the rock. A humble garden grew in a small clearing where sunlight penetrated.
It looked like a refuge. A hideout.
Dathanham barely had time to process the image.
FWOOSH.
A blur of motion. Air cut. Cold — a metallic, sharp cold — pressing against his throat.
He froze. His eyes, trained to see details, recorded fragments in slow motion:
Crystal-purple hair — a color so unreal it seemed painted.
Narrow brown eyes, fixed, calculating.
Firm hands gripping the handle of a dagger.
The blade, pressed against his skin, cold as Nika's touch on the cabin floor.
— Who are you? — the voice was female, young, but devoid of any childish hesitation. — How did you get here?
She could not be more than thirteen.
For the first time since the cabin, Léo lost composure. His body leaned forward, an instinctive, primitive movement. Protect. Attack.
And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the reaction vanished.
Léo stood still. He took a deep breath. His shoulders relaxed. His face became a smooth mask, calm, terrifyingly empty, and Dathanham felt a coldness different from the blade's.
— Don't point a weapon at your enemy — Léo said, his voice flat, almost conversational — if you don't intend to kill.
The purple-haired girl pressed her lips together.
— You think I'm not capable?
Léo began to walk. Slowly. Calmly. Towards Dathanham and the girl.
She laughed — a short, humorless sound.
— You're bluffing.
Léo did not respond. He kept walking. His steps measured, heavy on the damp earth.
The girl pressed the dagger. The blade slid off Dathanham's neck — only to reappear a moment later, the tip now pressing against his chest, directly over his heart.
Léo did not stop.
His eyes met hers. And in them, Dathanham saw — truly saw — the moment the girl realized.
He is not bluffing.
She pushed Dathanham forward, towards Léo, and leapt back in a fluid, impossibly graceful movement — backwards, never taking her eyes off them.
And then, something changed in the air.
It was not a sound. Not a movement.
It was a presence. An intention so dense, so pure, so absolute that it seemed to solidify the air around them.
The intention to kill.
Not anger. Not hatred. Just the cold, clear, undeniable intention to end lives.
Léo, who had remained calm before the blade, froze. His face drained of color. His eyes widened. Panic — pure, primitive, the same panic he had shown seeing Nika on the floor — flooded his features.
Dathanham felt it too. A pressure in the bones. A primal warning screaming: RUN. HIDE. DIE.
And then:
— STOP!
Thom's voice was not a shout. It was an order. An order carrying the weight of decades of authority, faith, power Dathanham did not understand.
The murderous presence dissipated like smoke in the wind.
From the shadow beside the house, a man emerged.
Middle-aged, but with a physique defying the years. Broad shoulders, veiny arms with scars telling silent stories. Curly black hair, cut close. And eyes — gray as old steel, scanning the three visitors in an instant, stopping on Thom.
— Long time, Thom — the man said, his voice rough as stone rubbed against stone.
— Good to see you, Arin — Thom replied, his own voice tense.
Arin smiled. It was not a friendly smile. It was the smile of a wolf seeing a trap.
— So? What brings you here?
— I came to collect that debt.
The smile vanished. Arin's face became a neutral mask, but his gray eyes darkened.
He did not look back, only nodded.
— Luia. Come here.
The purple-haired girl — Luia — slid to Arin's side. She still held the dagger, but lowered.
— Apologize — said Arin, his voice an order disguised as a request.
Luia looked at Dathanham, then at Léo. Her brown eyes were impenetrable. She nodded — a tiny motion — and lowered the dagger completely.
— Inside — said Arin, turning and walking toward the house.
The interior room was surprisingly cozy. Fireplace, bookshelves, training instruments carefully organized on the walls. A warrior's house, but also a home.
Arin sat on a simple wooden chair, his eyes fixed on Thom.
— So? — he asked. — These are your… adopted children?
— They are — Thom confirmed, placing a hand on Dathanham's shoulder, then Léo's. — Léo and Dathanham.
Arin studied them. His gaze was physical — Dathanham felt it as if being measured, weighed, evaluated.
— Aspiring believers, then? — Arin asked, with a touch of cynicism.
— No — Thom replied. — Only the eldest will follow the Goddess's path.
Arin raised an eyebrow. His gaze turned to Dathanham, then back to Thom.
— And the other?
Thom took a deep breath. In the small room, with everyone there — Thom, Léo, Dathanham, Arin, and Luia silently watching from the door — the next words seemed to echo.
— Your disciple — Thom said, each syllable clear and heavy. — Aspiring Swordmaster.
The silence that followed was broken only by the crackling of the fire.
Arin did not move. His gray eyes remained fixed on Dathanham — the eight-year-old boy, still trembling slightly, with the red eyes now looking back without fully understanding the weight of what had just been said.
— Aspiring Swordmaster — Arin repeated, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. — Here. In this place. With me.
He looked at Thom.
— You really came to collect the debt, didn't you, old friend?
Thom did not answer. He just nodded.
Arin let out a long, slow sigh. Then his eyes met Dathanham's again. This time, there was no evaluation. There was something different. Something resembling… recognition.
— Well — Arin said, standing. — If it's a debt, it's a debt. Luia, prepare the rooms. And you…
His gray eyes fixed on Dathanham.
— …start your training tomorrow. And pray to your goddess, or whatever you believe in, that you're ready for what comes next.
Dathanham swallowed hard. At his side, Léo remained still, but his eyes were fixed on Arin, calculating, always calculating.
Behind them, at the door, Luia watched. Her brown eyes glimmered in the fire for a moment. And in them, Dathanham swore he saw something that made him shiver:
Anticipation.