After several more minutes of circling and watching, Lucien still could not find a clean opening. Despite his age, the old man had clearly not let himself go to waste. His reaction speed alone was in a different category from anything Lucien had encountered before. The petty criminals he had been hunting across North Blue over the past nine months had been slower than him, or at most roughly his equal. Cael was neither. There was simply no comparison.
He thought for a few more seconds, then moved.
This time he did not commit to a single swing. He closed the distance with a fast one-two combination, keeping the punches short and tight, and the moment Cael began turning to deal with them Lucien pivoted and drove a leg sweep at the old man's waist. Cael read the punches and slipped them cleanly, and when the leg came he caught it, but it cost him a fraction more than the first throw had. He could not drive Lucien into the ground this time. He pushed the leg away instead.
Which was what Lucien had been counting on.
The push gave him the momentum he needed. He used it to leave the ground entirely, tucking the caught leg and bringing the other one around in a wide arc aimed at the side of Cael's head.
It did not land. Cael dropped his head back just far enough, and the heel passed close enough that Lucien felt the air between them. He hit the ground and rolled, came up on one knee, and stayed there for a moment catching his breath.
Cael looked down at him with an expression that had shifted slightly from where it began.
"Better," he said. "You used your head that time instead of just your arms." He paused, as though deciding how much to say, then continued in the same level tone. "Strength is generally regarded as the most important thing in this world, and that is probably not wrong. But raw strength alone is nothing to be afraid of. The most dangerous person is one who has both strength and the mind to use it properly. Remember that."
He turned toward the door. "That is enough for today. We have time." He pushed the door open, then stopped. "Before you come in, go down to the market and get some groceries. I was not expecting a guest and the cupboard is short." He disappeared inside and returned a moment later with a folded piece of paper, which he held out without ceremony. "The list. Do not substitute anything."
Lucien, who was still on one knee and whose legs had formed a quiet but firm objection to the stairs he was about to descend, took the list without comment. He had correctly deduced from the old man's words that this hill was going to be home for a while, which meant starting an argument on the first evening was inadvisable.
He stood, pocketed the list, and began the long walk back down.
Standing at the market stall while the vendor worked through the list, Lucien turned the afternoon over in his head. It had barely qualified as a fight. The old man had been playing with him the entire time, which was both humbling and clarifying. He finally understood why his father had sent him here specifically. Whatever he had picked up over the past nine months, the training, the bounties, the instincts developed through necessity, it was a foundation with significant gaps in it. Cael could fill those gaps. The type of learning Lucien lacked was precisely the type the old man had spent decades accumulating.
"All done," the vendor said, turning around. "Comes to one thousand and fifty-two berries, but since it's for old man Cael, call it a thousand." He stepped aside to reveal a small wooden crate packed with everything on the list.
Lucien looked at the crate. Then he looked at his money. Then he remembered that Cael had handed him a list and sent him out the door without a single berry to cover it.
He paid without saying anything, because there was nothing useful to say. Then he looked at the crate again and asked, "Is there anyone who can help me carry this back up the hill?"
"No spare hands today," the vendor said, already turning back to his business. "You will have to manage."
Lucien stood in front of the crate and felt his arms and legs register their objection before he had even bent down to pick it up.
He picked it up anyway.
The hill was exactly as steep on the way up as it had been on the way down, which he had known intellectually but which felt considerably more significant with a wooden crate in his arms. He stopped twice, not to rest but to redistribute the weight, and reached the blue door in a state that he would have described, if pressed, as adequately functional.
He set the crate down on the porch and knocked, because walking into the old man's house uninvited on the first evening seemed like the kind of decision that had consequences.
The door opened. Cael looked at him, then at the crate, then back at him.
"You took longer than expected," he said.
"You did not give me any money," Lucien said.
"No," Cael agreed, and picked up the crate with one hand and carried it inside.
Lucien stood on the porch for a moment, watching him go, and made a quiet note in the running list of things he intended to be capable of eventually. Then he followed him inside.
"Lunch is ready," Cael said, nodding toward the table without looking up. "Eat."
Lucien looked at the food. Then he looked at the old man. Then he looked back at the food and put the pieces together with the particular clarity that comes from being tired and recently out of pocket. There had been enough in the cupboard to cook a full meal the entire time. Cael had known he was exhausted from the walk and the fight and had sent him down that hill and back up it anyway, with his own money, for a crate of groceries that had not been strictly necessary.
He took a slow breath, sat down in front of the food, and ate.
It was good. That was almost worse.