...
The door shut behind Enark with a soft, familiar click.
For a moment, he stood still, letting the city's noise fade from his ears. The distant hiss of steam vents, the clatter of passing carriages, the murmur of voices drifting through narrow streets—all of it dulled as the house reclaimed him.
Warmth lingered in the air.
Oil and iron. Old wood. Incense burned low somewhere faintly within. And beneath it all, the unmistakable scent of food.
"Enark?" a voice called from deeper inside the house, bright and unmistakably joyous. "Is that you, my dear?"
"Yes, Grandma," he replied, slipping off his shoes and setting them neatly by the door.
An elderly woman appeared almost immediately, as if she'd been waiting just out of sight. Her silver hair was tied back loosely, a few strands already escaping. An apron hung over her dress, dusted with flour and herbs. Her eyes softened the instant they found him.
"There you are," she said, crossing the room briskly. Before Enark could protest, she wrapped him in a hug, the kind that left no room for resistance.
"You're home quite late," she added, pulling back just enough to look at him properly. "Did the academy keep you after?"
"No," Enark said. "I just… walked a bit."
"You boys," she sighed, half fond, half exasperated. "Do you not know what carriages are for?" She gave him a small nudge toward the upstairs hall. "Go on now. Wash up—dinner's almost ready."
Enark nodded and headed upstairs, entering his room.
His room was unchanged.
The same narrow bed. The same shelf lined with old books and carefully arranged tools. The same faint creak in the floorboard near the window.
He changed out of his academy uniform, folding it neatly before heading back downstairs.
His grandmother was in the kitchen, humming softly as she worked. A pot simmered on the stove as steam curled upward. Chopped vegetables lay neatly arranged on a board.
"Perfect timing," she said without looking up. "Set the table for me, will you?"
Enark did as asked, laying out plates and utensils with practiced ease.
"So," she said lightly, "first day."
"It was alright," he replied.
She laughed softly. "That's all? I thought it'd be special. It is a very prestigious school."
"The instructors are fine, I guess," Enark said. "The academy's just… really big."
"That's good," she said, pleased. "Very good." She watched him for a moment longer, then added, "And what about your classmates? Did you make any new friends?"
He nodded. "Well... Archie's in my class. Kirsty too. Suzune as well."
Her face brightened instantly. "All three of them?" She clasped her hands together. "Oh, thank goodness." A fond smile crossed her face. "You children were always together. Running up and down the streets like you owned the place."
"Archie's mother would scold me every other day for giving him so many sweets," she added with a chuckle. "And Kirsty—always trying to prove she was tougher than the boys. As for Suzune…" She shook her head fondly. "That girl was asking questions before she could properly read."
Enark felt something ease in his chest. "Guess they haven't changed much," he said.
"That's because good people don't change so easily," she replied gently. Her voice softened. "People matter, Enark. Especially the ones who walk beside you."
He didn't answer, but as he set down the last plate, her words stayed with him longer than he expected.
"Go fetch your grandfather," she said at last. "He's still out back hammering away in that forge."
"Alright."
The forge sat behind the house; its doors open just enough to let light spill into the yard.
Enark's grandfather stood inside, broad-shouldered even in age, his frame rigid as he worked. The hammer rested against the anvil now, his hands still, as if he'd paused mid-thought.
Enark stepped inside, sensing him in the room full of unfinished swords. Steel lined the walls in various stages of becoming—blanks, half-shaped blades, edges yet to be honed.
He wondered how many had been abandoned on purpose.
...
"Dinner's ready," he said.
He didn't turn. "I know."
A moment passed.
Then he set the hammer down and reached for his coat. "I'll come."
They walked back in silence, the sound of steps on stone filling the space between them.
Dinner was quiet at first.
Enark's grandmother filled the room with gentle questions—about classes, schedules, names. Enark answered honestly to his grandmother's eagerness. His grandfather listened without comment, eating slowly, his gaze fixed on his plate.
"So," his grandfather said at last, setting his fork down. "Are they teaching you how to fight yet?"
His grandmother shot him a look sharp enough to cut. "Valo."
"It's a fair question, Azazíah," he replied evenly.
"Not yet," Enark said. "Mostly academic stuff for now."
Valo nodded once. "Good."
...
"You should keep it that way."
"Grandfather—"
"School is school," Valo said, his voice hardening. "And fighting is fighting. Don't confuse the two."
Azazíah set her napkin down slowly. "Valo—don't start."
"I'm not starting anything," he said.
"Then speak plainly," Enark said, setting down his fork. "I'll listen."
Azazíah spoke gently but firmly. "Careful, both of you."
Valo's jaw tightened, a shadow passing over his features.He leaned back slightly, taking a slow breath. "I'm not here to fight with him," he said, tone softer now. "I just… I hope he knows what he's stepping into. Some lessons aren't academic."
"I don't need your protection," Enark said, quiet, but unyielding.
"Is that right, young man?" Valo replied.
A flash of frustration passed over Valo's face. "Mistakes can kill you," he said. "You don't get a redo when you stumble into things unprepared."
"You're not the only one responsible for me," Enark countered, "And I'll get stronger, whether you approve or not."
Valo's hand clenched briefly on the table. "Stronger?" he repeated. "Stronger isn't enough! You don't see the dangers, Enark—not yet. And I won't sit here and watch you walk—" His voice hardened. "Watch you walk blindly into them."
Azazíah placed a hand on Valo's arm, firm but calm. "Enough," she said. "Let it go for tonight."
Valo shook his head before he rose abruptly, "No. I need air."
Without another word, he opened the door and stepped out, the chill night air swallowing the sound of the door closing behind him.
The room was quiet. Enark sat frozen, and Azazíah sighed as she began clearing the plates.
"He worries," she said softly.
"Hmm," Enark muttered.
They finished cleaning in silence.
-----------------------------
Later, Enark lay in bed.
Sounds reached him—distant, fractured, but unmistakable. Shouts and screams crowded the air. The kind that didn't belong to celebration.
It all seeped into his being, igniting once more a vengeful shadow.
Underneath the darkness of his room, he rose.
Beneath his bed, there lay a small, unassuming chest.
He opened it, and from its interior, lifted each piece carefully, as if handling something alive.
He pulled out a black shirt first, sliding it over his head. The fabric clung like a second skin.
Next, navy trousers, tightened at the waist, reshaping his silhouette.
Finally… the third piece.
He tied it carefully, feeling the world sharpening all at once.
The room, the street beyond, the spires of Caldonia.
All perceived by a figure donning a black blindfold.