The smell of salt and iron lingered in the cell.
Nhilly sat in silence, his back against the cold stone, his eyes fixed on the flickering candle burning low beside the door.
He hadn't moved in hours. Maybe days. Time blurred here — like everything else.
The chains around his wrists had long since lost their bite; his skin had hardened, his mind had gone quiet.
He'd stopped counting how many times the guards walked past. They didn't speak to him anymore.
Three months since Seris's death.
Three months since the laughter.
Three months since he'd killed men who weren't men.
He leaned his head back against the wall, exhaling slowly. The air tasted of rust and ash. Somewhere above, faintly, a hymn drifted down from the cathedral — praise to the Constellations.
He closed his eyes.
And for the first time in a long time, he remembered.
Not the blood.
Not the stars.
But sunlight.
The world was bright when he opened his eyes again.
The dojo smelled of pine and sweat and summer rain. The sound of wooden swords clashing filled the courtyard, followed by laughter and shouts of encouragement.
Children ran barefoot across the tatami floors, their practice blades wobbling in their tiny hands.
"Keep your stance steady!" a man called out. His voice was warm, commanding but kind.
Nhilly turned toward it — and smiled.
His father stood at the centre of the yard, sleeves rolled up, dark hair tied back, his posture straight as steel. His presence seemed to fill the space — calm, unshakable, the kind of strength that made people trust without needing words.
"Again!" his father barked.
Nhilly, smaller and bright-eyed, barely eleven, raised his wooden sword. Sweat dripped down his face as he swung, his motions precise, fluid — too practiced for a child.
The clash echoed, sharp and true.
His father grinned. "Good. Now again, faster."
Nhilly obeyed without hesitation.
Around them, the students cheered.
"You see that?" one of the older men whispered to another. "He's not human, that kid."
"He's his father's son," came the reply, proud and a little awed.
When they finished, Nhilly was panting, cheeks flushed, but his grin was wide. "Did I do it right this time, Father?"
His father chuckled, resting a hand on his shoulder. "You did more than right. At this rate, you'll outpace me by fifteen."
Nhilly puffed his chest. "Twelve."
Laughter rippled through the dojo.
Later that evening, Nhilly sat on the veranda with John, one of the older disciples — twenty-seven, tall and broad-shouldered, with a scar running down his jaw. He was polishing his blade, humming softly.
Nhilly watched him with curious eyes. "John, do you think I'll ever be as strong as Father?"
John looked up, smiling faintly. "Stronger, maybe. If you don't let that big head of yours, get in the way."
Nhilly frowned, pretending to be offended. "I don't have a big head!"
"Sure, you don't," John said, smirking. "You just talk like you've already saved the world."
Nhilly crossed his arms. "I will. Someday, I'll save everyone from the Yarion world. Then no one will have to disappear anymore."
John's hand paused mid-polish. He looked at the boy for a moment, then sighed quietly.
"You sound just like your father when he was your age," he said. "Same eyes. Same stubbornness."
Nhilly smiled proudly. "That means I'll do it, then."
John chuckled and leaned back. "Maybe you will. But remember — the sword isn't just for strength. It's for control. If you don't learn that, it'll eat you alive."
Nhilly tilted his head. "Eat me?"
"Not literally, you brat," John said, laughing. "You'll see what I mean when you're older."
Nhilly pouted. "You always say that."
"Because you're always too young to understand."
That night, at dinner, the smell of stew filled their small home beside the dojo. His mother hummed softly as she ladled food into bowls, her round belly showing through her apron.
"Eat slowly, Nhilly," she said gently. "You'll choke again."
Nhilly mumbled through a mouthful of bread, "I'm fine!"
His father laughed. "He gets it from you, you know."
His mother glared playfully. "If he gets your bad habits, he'll be swinging a sword at bedtime next."
Nhilly grinned at both of them, cheeks stuffed with food. "I'm gonna be the strongest swordsman in the world!"
His mother smiled, brushing his hair aside. "Then you'll protect us all, won't you?"
"I will," Nhilly said, earnest and certain. "I'll protect everyone."
Morning began the same way every day.
The dojo gates creaked open at sunrise, letting in a flood of golden light and the smell of wet earth. Nhilly was always the first inside — barefoot, hair unkempt, wooden sword already in hand before anyone else had finished tying their belts.
"Early again?" John's voice would echo from the doorway. "You know, normal kids sleep."
Nhilly grinned without looking back. "Normal kids can't block my swing."
John groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. "You're gonna kill me before I turn thirty."
The other disciples laughed from the sidelines as Nhilly dropped into stance, his wooden sword perfectly aligned, eyes bright and focused.
Even at eleven, there was something unnerving about the way he looked at his opponent — not arrogant, not hostile, but certain.
He believed he'd win every time.
And most of the time, he did.
The match began with a shout.
The clack of wood against wood rang through the courtyard. John pushed forward with his usual strength, trying to overwhelm the boy, but Nhilly's movements were precise, smaller, sharper — like water weaving through a storm.
When John overextended, Nhilly pivoted, sweeping his leg and tapping the back of his neck with the hilt.
A clean victory.
The students erupted in laughter and applause.
John groaned, lying flat on the tatami. "You're supposed to miss, brat."
Nhilly leaned on his sword, panting but beaming. "Can't. You told me to take every opening."
"Next time, I'm tripping you," John muttered, but his smile gave him away.
Nhilly extended a hand to help him up. "You'd still lose."
"You're lucky I like you," John said, grabbing his wrist and hauling himself upright. "If your father didn't think you were some kind of miracle, I'd have fed you to the chickens by now."
"They'd die," Nhilly said innocently.
John laughed until he nearly doubled over. "You really are your father's son."
In the afternoons, after training, the dojo was peaceful. The sound of cicadas drifted through the air, and sunlight poured through the paper windows, turning the floor golden.
Nhilly's mother would bring him snacks — usually rice cakes, sometimes sweet bread if she'd been in the mood to bake.
"Eat," she'd say. "You burn too much energy pretending to be an adult."
Nhilly would grin. "I am an adult."
His mother would chuckle softly. "Then I suppose adults still need to nap after lunch?"
Nhilly's cheeks turned red. "I wasn't napping, I was meditating!"
His father's laughter would roll from the next room. "If drooling counts as meditation, then you're a master already."
The boy would groan, covering his face as his parents laughed together.
It was a simple rhythm — training, meals, laughter, the comfort of routine — but Nhilly adored it. The dojo was his whole world, and he believed it would never change.
In the evenings, the courtyard came alive.
Villagers gathered outside to watch sparring matches, and the dojo lanterns glowed like tiny suns.
Nhilly's father often performed demonstrations — swift, beautiful movements that seemed more like dance than combat. Each slash drew murmurs of awe from the crowd.
Nhilly would sit cross-legged beside John, eyes wide, memorizing every motion.
"Do you think I'll ever be that good?" Nhilly whispered.
John smirked. "At this rate, yeah — but don't tell him that. He likes thinking he's unbeatable."
Nhilly grinned. "I'll still beat him someday."
"You sound like him, too."
"Good."
When his father finished, he'd bow to the crowd, then always, always look directly at Nhilly and wink — a small gesture only his son ever noticed.
Nhilly would wave back, bursting with pride.