...
*Shhhhhh… shhhhhh…*
Enark woke to the sound of rain against the roof. Soft at first, then it grew heavier by the second.
But something stirred in the dark beyond his room. His ears were picking up movement within his home.
The hallway was empty, dimly lit by the flickering glow of a lantern from the study at the far end. He crept closer and saw his father, hands steady as he cleaned the blade of his sword.
The polished steel gleamed in the lantern light. His bright, blooming eyes widened at the sight of it--marvelling at its elegance.
His father's face was calm and focused, yet the lines around his eyes held something deeper beneath them.
"Dad?" he whispered.
The hand on the sword paused. "Enark…" His voice was low but not startled, almost… expectant. "Can't sleep?"
Enark shook his head, feet shivering slightly on the wooden floor. "I… I heard the rain," he admitted. "I… I just…"
"I know," his father said quietly, not looking up. "Your mother said you've been wandering about at night. Careful, I don't want you catching a chill."
Enark stepped closer, eyes fixed on the blade. "I… I keep thinking about that day."
His father continued cleaning the sword; he had heard the words but was letting them sink in slowly.
"I… I don't get it," Enark said, voice small. "How… how did you fight them… all of them… and still save us?
His father set the blade down slowly, letting the cloth rest over the edge. He turned toward Enark, the flickering lantern light casting shadows across his face. A faint smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes… they were heavy with memories.
"When I was your age," he began softly, "I wanted to become a true Knight of Justice. Not just a man with a sword, but someone who could protect the innocent, who could stand against the evil of this world without flinching."
Enark's eyes widened.
"Did you give up?"
"Yeah... I have," his Father replied.
"Your grandfather… he walked this path as well," his father continued, voice thick with both pride and sorrow. "He was a Knight too. But the world… it has a way of twisting even the purest ideals. He saw what became of his path, how easily justice became vengeance, and… he couldn't bear it. He gave up the sword, seeking guidance not from the Goddess of our Nation, but from a God whose teachings were of faith, and of care for all life."
Rain hammered against the roof in bursts, the sound punctuating his father's confession.
"And I…" his father's voice faltered slightly. "I fought evil… but I never became what I believed justice truly was." "And the cost…" He shook his head slowly, eyes flicking to the polished blade beside him. "…the cost is everything."
He leaned closer, voice dropping, earnest and heavy. "That's why, Enark… listen to me. Killing—even the worst of men—even those who deserve it... It will never make you a true protector. Every life you take will bind itself to your heart, and one day, it will crush you."
He met his son's eyes. "Help people. Defend those who can't defend themselves."
"But do not kill."
"That is the weight of justice."
Enark stepped closer, small hands clenched at his sides. "Then.."
"I'll do it," he said, voice trembling but firm.
"I'll be a Knight of Justice."
"For you… for Mom… for everyone who has no one to protect them."
His father paused, letting the words sink in. His face was etched with memories of battles and bloodshed.
"Do you think you can?" he asked finally, voice low. "To carry a life spent defending others, even when it costs you everything?"
Enark swallowed, tiny chest rising and falling.
"I… I'll try," he said, voice small but certain.
"I'll try no matter what. I… I want to help, as you did."
"I'll carry your dream for you, Dad."
His father studied him, and for a moment, the silence was absolute. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Well," he said softly, almost a whisper. "I'll be counting on you, Enark."
...
-----------------------------
*KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK*
"Enark?"
"Enark, wake up! You're gonna be late!" An elderly lady's voice rang through a home as the dawning sunlight crept through the curtains.
"I'm up, I'm up..." He groaned, his arms felt leaden, and his legs stiff.
Every breath tugged at his ribs. Even turning onto his side sent a dull ache in his chest, making him wince with each motion.
Each movement sent sharp reminders of last night's events through his body.
Reminding him he was still very much alive and of the promise he'd made to himself long ago.
Outside, the city stirred, indifferent to his pain. He took a shallow breath, steadying himself.
"I'm so tired..."