The cabin sat on the edge of Biwa's northern woods, a modest structure of timber and stone, its roof sagging slightly as if the weight of years pressed down on it. Smoke lazily spiraled from the chimney, carrying the faint scent of pine and roasted root vegetables. Birds occasionally flitted across the clearing, but the usual songs were sparse; the forests themselves seemed hushed, aware that war had crept too close for comfort.
Inside, Kael leaned against the wall, head tilted back, one hand resting on the polished wood, the other idly tracing imaginary patterns on the floorboards. He stared at the ceiling as if it contained some secret answer to the chaos outside. His stomach growled, a soft rumble that would have been comical in any other time. But in the shadow of the war creeping closer to Biwa, it sounded almost like a defiance—a small, human rebellion against the silence of impending violence.
Jade moved about the cabin, her hands busy with practicalities. She had a way of moving that made every object seem alive: the broom, the kettle, the knife all seemed to obey her, tilting and shifting as she worked. "Kael," she said without looking up, "you're going to starve if you stare at the ceiling all day. Or worse, you'll die before the war finds you."
Kael's lips twisted in what was probably intended to be a grin. "If I die of hunger, I'll at least have a good story to tell the ghosts," he said, voice low, but the words carried that strange humor he often wore like armor.
Outside, Dill was checking the perimeter. Even at a distance, Kael could see the way the man's hands moved with a scholar's precision—touching the bark of trees, listening to the earth, watching for footprints that didn't belong. Dill's calmness was a counterbalance to Kael's restless energy, the two of them like opposite currents in a stream that still somehow flowed in the same direction.
The cabin had become a strange sanctuary, a pocket of stillness in a world that was slowly being swallowed by war. The villagers of Biwa were wary, sending only occasional glances or whispered rumors that Kael, Jade, and Dill had taken shelter at the edge of the woods. Some said the child boy had powers beyond comprehension; others simply assumed it was a family of eccentric wanderers. None dared approach, and perhaps that was best. Kael's presence alone had a way of making the ordinary uneasy, as if even the air remembered him differently.
Kael stretched, rolling his shoulders. The faint lines of a scar that ran down his forearm caught the light from the fireplace. It was a mark from one of the skirmishes earlier, a reminder that even hiding in quiet places did not erase the reach of the war. He flexed his fingers, feeling the dull thrum of readiness in his muscles. Every now and then, he would swing his hands in the air, imagining the movements of a battle he had yet to fully fight. The blade he would one day wield—though he didn't yet know it—was a thought in the periphery, a whisper that made the hair on his arms stand on end.
Jade noticed the tension. "You can't just sit there waiting for the war to come for you, you know," she said, voice firm but not unkind. "The demons don't care if you're a boy with a quiet cabin in the woods. They'll find you."
Kael hummed, a sound that was half amusement, half calculation. "And if they do? I suppose I'll have to make them regret it."
The words hung in the air, not as a threat but almost as a statement of fact. There was no grand flourish, no dramatic proclamation. It was simply a boy, quiet yet resolute, imagining the ways in which the world might bend to his will.
Outside, the first faint tremors of war reached Biwa. Beast raids had begun, small at first, scattered packs that left the edges of the forest frayed and raw. But even in their small numbers, the creatures carried the precision of something learned, coordinated, as if a single mind were pulling strings behind the veil of night. Smoke on the horizon hinted at burning farms and villages farther north, and Kael, for the first time, felt the stirrings of anticipation—not fear, not excitement, but an acute awareness that he was part of this larger world, whether he liked it or not.
Jade watched him, a flicker of concern in her eyes. "You'll need to train if you're going to survive what's coming," she said. "Hiding won't save you, and neither will being clever."
Kael tilted his head. "Training?" he asked, though the question was rhetorical. He knew what she meant. The boy who had spent most of his life observing, learning in fits and starts, would soon need more than observation. He would need the raw, unrefined power that his body and mind could produce—and perhaps even a touch of cunning, a slyness that hid behind humor.
Dill returned, silent as always, a map tucked under one arm, lines and markings showing distant kingdoms and strongholds. Kael's eyes followed the map, noting the jagged lines and the places where the enemy had already pushed. "The war is bigger than any of us imagined," Dill said, voice low. "Silpatra may hold for now, but if the borders fall, it won't just be us. Entire nations will crumble."
Kael hummed again, almost unconcerned. Yet he noticed the tension in the lines of Dill's shoulders and the way Jade's fingers flexed around the handles of their tools. Even in quiet, even in a simple cabin, the war was present. It was not an abstract thing; it was a weight, pressing on everyone and everything. The roof groaned under its age, the fire snapped and hissed, and outside, the wind seemed to whisper of coming battles.
And then Kael did something small, almost absurd: he stood on the table and swung an invisible sword, tracing arcs in the air. Each movement was precise, yet awkward, like a dance half-learned. Each strike sent a tiny vibration through the floorboards, a rhythm, a practice in timing. Jade could not help but watch, exasperated. "If you break the table," she warned, "I swear—"
Kael landed a dramatic bow, teeth bared in a grin. "Then I shall break my enemies instead," he said. The words were almost playful, but beneath them was a truth. Every swing, every arc, every step was preparation. The quiet cabin was a sanctuary, yes, but it was also a forge.
By the time the sun set, shadows had deepened in the corners, and Kael sat cross-legged on the floor, the map spread before him. He traced paths with his fingers, imagining enemy movements, imagining the way Cassian, the eldest prince, would descend on the battlefield like a storm given form. The Sagittarius Knight. Blood Driver. The Butcher. Names that would make soldiers tremble and demons scatter. Kael did not yet understand all the weight those names carried, but he knew the stories. Cassian's skill was a legend, whispered in the north, south, east, and west. The boy's eyes shone faintly as he considered what it meant—to grow up with such a brother, to learn in a world where the strong were dangerous, and the stories of slaughter were real.
Outside, the wind picked up. Smoke from distant fires drifted closer, carrying the stench of war. Inside, the cabin was quiet, save for Kael's stomach, which growled again, as if reminding everyone that even in a world poised on the edge of ruin, some things remained stubbornly human.
And Kael, grinning, imagined the day when he would swing his own sword for real, when laughter and blood would mix, and when even a quiet cabin could be remembered as the birthplace of someone who could survive—no, someone who could dominate—a world at war.