The night stretched endlessly, vast and silent, save for the steady rhythm of hooves against dirt. Moonlight bathed the land in silver, casting long, shifting shadows over the open road. A cool wind carried the scent of damp earth and distant embers—the last traces of the ruin they left behind.
Leif shifted slightly in his saddle, feeling the small weight pressed against him. Sarion had fallen asleep at some point during the ride, his small hands still curled around the saddle horn. His breathing was steady, but there was something fragile in the way he clung to the leather, even in sleep.
Leif exhaled through his nose, glancing ahead. The Shadow Assassin rode a few paces in front, his black armor blending into the night, a silhouette against the pale glow of the moon. His horse moved like a phantom—silent, graceful, unnatural in its stillness even at a trot.
Leif spoke low, careful not to wake the boy. "I don't get it." His voice came out rough, edged with something bitter. "Why'd you agree to take him in? Train him? He's only seven."
The Shadow Assassin did not turn, his voice as steady as the wind. "Age doesn't matter."
Leif scoffed. "It does when you're trying to turn a kid into a killer."
Silence stretched between them, but Leif didn't look away. He had spent enough time around the Shadow Assassin to know the man wasn't ignoring him—just weighing his words, choosing what to say.
Then, finally, the assassin spoke again. "Aren't you also on the path of revenge?"
Leif stiffened. His grip on the reins tightened.
The words had been spoken without accusation, without mockery. Just a fact, plain and simple.
The wind howled softly through the trees.
Leif let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders as if the weight pressing on them had suddenly doubled. His eyes stayed on the road ahead, but his mind was elsewhere—back in that ruined village, back to the moment he saw the golden portal swallowing Lilia, back to the rage, the helplessness.
His jaw tightened. "That's different."
The Shadow Assassin said nothing.
Leif clicked his tongue, frustrated at the silence. "I know what I'm getting into," he muttered. "I made that choice myself. But Sarion… he's just a kid. He doesn't even understand what revenge means."
"He will."
Leif finally turned to look at him, irritation flashing in his gaze. "That supposed to make me feel better?"
The assassin didn't respond immediately. His black horse moved soundlessly, its breath visible in the cold night air. Then, in that same quiet, unshaken tone, he said, "The world won't wait for him to grow stronger."
Leif let the words settle. There was a finality in them, an inevitability he couldn't argue with.
He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Yeah, well… I still don't like it."
Ahead of them, the dark outline of a village took shape against the horizon.
"I don't like it either," the Shadow Assassin said. "But it's how the world works."
Leif didn't respond. His lips pressed into a thin line, his hands tense on the reins.
The road sloped downward, leading them toward the village nestled in the valley. Lanterns flickered at the entrance, casting long shadows over the dirt path.
Four figures stood waiting beneath the dim glow.
An old man in a black cloak, his face partially hidden beneath the hood, leaning lightly on a wooden staff.
Beside him, a young woman with long silver hair, dressed in simple, well-worn clothes. A silver sword hung at her belt, its hilt reflecting the lantern light.
A short red-haired girl, barely in her teens, arms crossed and shifting impatiently on her feet.
And a bald man in his thirties, his muscular frame stretching the fabric of his shirt, thick arms crossed over his chest as he watched their approach.
The red-haired girl waved at the Shadow Assassin, a grin flashing across her face.
The bald man, arms still crossed, smiled at Leif—a knowing, almost amused expression.
The old man's gaze settled on Sarion, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as the riders approached.
As the Shadow Assassin and Leif arrived, still on their horses, the old man spoke. "Who is the boy?"
"He will be living with us from today onwards," the Shadow Assassin said as he dismounted from his black horse, his voice carrying through the quiet night.
His crimson eyes flickered toward the red-haired girl. "Be nice to him, Mell."
Mell crossed her arms but gave a small nod, her usual energy subdued by the late hour.
The silver-haired young woman stepped forward, her gaze falling on Sarion. The boy still clung to Leif's back, his small form unmoving, his breathing faint against the cool night air. Concern flickered in her expression.
The bald man didn't speak. He only nodded, his gaze shifting between Leif and the boy.
The old man let out a quiet chuckle. "Well, this is a story I want to hear about."
Leif didn't respond. He simply shook his head.
The night stretched around them, still and heavy. The village was asleep, the only signs of life coming from the six figures standing beneath the dim lantern light. Behind them loomed a two-story house, its dark wooden frame casting long shadows. A large backyard stretched beyond it, hidden in the quiet darkness.
The old man's smile faded. The silver-haired woman's fingers tightened at her sides. Even Mell shifted uncomfortably.
They could feel it now—that weight pressing down on them, that unspoken truth.
Something terrible had happened in Sarion's village.
...
Sarion stirred, his small hands gripping at the unfamiliar sheets beneath him. His eyelids fluttered open, and for a moment, his vision was blurred with sleep. The ceiling above him was wooden, the beams running across it in a way he didn't recognize.
His brows furrowed.
This wasn't his room.
He sat up abruptly, the blanket sliding off his small frame. The bed was firm but comfortable, the sheets plain and slightly rough—nothing like the ones he was used to. His fingers ran across them absentmindedly as his wide eyes darted around the space.
The room was modest. A wooden wardrobe stood against the far wall, its doors slightly worn from use. A small desk rested beside it, with nothing on it except for a neatly folded cloth and an unlit lantern. The floor was wooden as well, creaking slightly as he shifted his legs.
On his right, sunlight streamed through an open window, casting warm golden rays into the room. The curtains had been drawn back, allowing the light to spill freely, illuminating the dust particles floating in the air.
Sarion blinked against the brightness, his mind struggling to catch up.
Where was he?
This wasn't his home. The realization settled in like a weight in his chest, his breath growing unsteady.
Then, memories surged forward. The fire. The screams. His mother and father. His sister—
His heart pounded. His hands clenched the sheets.
This wasn't home. This was somewhere else.
Panic clawed at Sarion's chest, squeezing tighter with each memory that rushed back into his mind. His breath became shallow, ragged, as his hands trembled at his sides. He clutched the blankets, pulling them toward him, as if they could shield him from the haunting images that flooded his thoughts.
The dead chef. His eyes were wide open in that grotesque stare, his body crumpled, lifeless.
The Black Tower's young man, his cold, detached voice asking Sarion to choose.
"Who lives? Who dies?"
Sarion's throat tightened. The image of the guard, standing frozen, helpless. His wife, shaking in the corner. Sarion had been forced to choose between them—and he couldn't.
He couldn't.
In the end, he had chosen neither. And they both fell to the ground, lifeless.
The fire. The heat that pressed against his skin. The smoke that choked the air, suffocating the village he once called home. Screams.
His mother's lifeless body in the backyard, her face frozen in an expression of horror.
His father's body—still, cold, broken—lying in their house, the blood pooling around him.
And then...
Lilia. His little sister.
She was... taken. Taken by the Black Tower.
Sarion's heart hammered, the ache in his chest growing unbearable. He could feel the weight of it all, that terrible loss, as if it were physically crushing him.
And finally, the face of the legendary killer—the Shadow Assassin.
Cold. Detached. Silent. The one who had ended the Black Tower's reign of terror.
But that didn't matter now. It didn't change what had happened.
Tears welled in Sarion's eyes, but he fought to hold them back, his breath hitching in panic. The room around him seemed to close in, the walls pressing against him as his pulse thundered in his ears. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't—
The door creaked open, but Sarion couldn't bring himself to look. He didn't want anyone to see him like this.
The voice was deep, manly, but there was an unmistakable softness to it—a quiet comfort that tried to push through Sarion's panic.
"Hey, hey," the voice murmured, a touch of concern threading through it. "It's alright. You're safe now."
Sarion flinched, his body stiffening at the sound. He couldn't—he didn't want to—look at anyone.
But the voice drew nearer, until footsteps stopped right by the bed. The man didn't push him, didn't force anything. Instead, he sat down at the edge of the bed, his presence steady, unwavering.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was Sarion's rapid, shallow breathing, his chest tight as the memories continued to torment him.
And then, without warning, the man gently pulled him close.
The warmth of the hug enveloped him, the solid, steady presence of the man grounding him in the chaos of his mind. Sarion's breath caught in his throat, the tears finally breaking free as they spilled onto the man's chest.
His sobs were quiet at first, stifled by the weight of everything he had lost. But as the man held him, the warmth of his embrace slowly unraveling the tightness in his chest, Sarion cried freely—painful, raw tears that were long overdue.
The man's large hand gently patted Sarion's head, a steady, rhythmic motion that seemed to help calm the storm inside him. Time passed in quiet intervals, each one giving Sarion just enough room to let the sobs fade, to let the tension ease from his small frame. The warmth of the man's embrace lingered, and with every moment that passed, Sarion felt himself beginning to settle, though the weight of his grief was far from gone.
After a few minutes, the man pulled back just enough to offer him a handkerchief. Sarion took it hesitantly, his hands shaking slightly as he wiped his face, brushing away the tears and sniffles.
"Don't worry," the man said softly, his voice low and gentle. "You're strong. You've been through more than anyone should have to. But you'll get through it. You'll find a way."
Sarion nodded silently, still caught in the storm of emotions, but something about the man's words—his tone—made the fear in Sarion's chest ease just a little.
As he wiped the last of the tears away, Sarion raised his head, his eyes meeting the man's. The first thing that stood out were his eyes—dark and intense, with a sharp, focused gaze that seemed to pierce through everything. There was a quiet wisdom in them, a depth that spoke of years lived, battles fought, and hardships endured.
For a moment, as his gaze lingered, a name flashed in Sarion's mind—the Eastern Empire.
It was a name he hadn't thought of in years, a distant memory from before everything had fallen apart. The people from the East were known for their fierce warriors, their discipline, their strength. The name and the image of the Empire came and went quickly, but it was enough to leave Sarion puzzled.
Something about this man reminded him of that distant land—his eyes, his demeanor, the quiet strength he exuded. But it was just a fleeting thought, one that slipped away as quickly as it had come.
The man didn't say anything at first, his presence still and calm. His eyes softened a little as he saw Sarion looking up at him. Then he gave a small, understanding nod.
"You'll be okay," he said again, quieter this time, as if the words were more for himself than for Sarion.
Sarion sniffed and wiped his nose one last time, still feeling the weight of everything that had happened. He looked up at the man, his eyes a little red, but calmer now, thanks to the comforting warmth that had settled in his chest.
"Th-thank you," Sarion whispered, his voice small but genuine. He had to force himself to say the words, but his gratitude was there, clear beneath the shakiness.
The bald man smiled gently, a small, warm expression that seemed to soften his otherwise imposing features. "No need to thank me," he said, his voice steady but kind. "It's my job to help out those in need."
The man paused for a moment before shifting slightly, sitting back so that he could face Sarion more directly. "My name's Jon," he said, offering the boy a reassuring smile. "What's yours?"
Sarion hesitated. His first name was easy enough—he was Sarion. But as the man's question echoed in his ears, the memories of everything that had happened to him the day before came rushing back. His parents. The fire. The blood.
His sister, Lilia, taken by the Black Tower.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment, trying to push away the images that were threatening to flood back. He didn't want to think about it. Not yet. Not now.
After a few seconds, Sarion took a deep breath, forcing the thoughts to settle. He shook his head, trying to clear the panic that was beginning to tighten his chest again. He looked at Jon, his face still a little pained but determined.
"Sarion," he said, his voice firm, though the hesitation lingered in his eyes. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "Transton." The last name came more easily than he expected, though the memories tugged at him even then. But he couldn't let himself be caught in the past. Not now.
Jon nodded slowly, a slight understanding in his gaze. "Good to meet you, Sarion Transton." The warmth in his eyes deepened, but there was no pity in his expression. Just quiet understanding.
Jon stood up from the bed, stretching his arms a little as he made his way toward the door. "There's breakfast already ready downstairs," he said, his tone light, almost teasing. "Don't worry about it. I made it myself, so you're in good hands—I'm a great cook."
Sarion nodded, though he didn't return the smile. His gaze wandered to the window, the sun still shining brightly outside, but it felt like it wasn't enough to ease the heaviness in his chest. His mind kept drifting back to the night before—the fire, the screams, Lilia...
"Where am I?" Sarion asked suddenly, his voice small but clear, almost too formal for his age.
Jon's smile stiffened, just for a second, and his expression became more guarded. He took a breath, clearly weighing his words before speaking.
"Do you remember who took you in yesterday?" Jon asked, his tone soft but serious, as though carefully gauging Sarion's reaction.
Sarion thought for a moment, his brow furrowing as he tried to process everything. He remembered the black-clad figure, the fearsome presence that had swept through the remnants of his village, dispatching the Black Tower with terrifying efficiency. The Shadow Assassin...
He nodded slowly.
Jon's expression shifted again, this time more somber. "You're in the Shadow Assassin's house," he said, his voice quiet, but clear.
The weight of the words hung in the air, and Sarion's chest tightened again. The Shadow Assassin. The legendary killer. The one who had ended the terror of the Black Tower. The one who had saved him.
Sarion's gaze shifted to the window, his thoughts clouded by the memories of yesterday. The image of his father's lifeless body in the broken dining room—the same room where so many screams had echoed—haunted him. His hands trembled slightly as he remembered the Shadow Assassin, his calm yet unsettling presence, offering him a way forward after everything had fallen apart. The man had spoken of training, of strength, of vengeance.
But now, Sarion was supposed to be trained by someone else. Someone he barely knew.
A man with blonde hair and a beard of the same color, wearing adventuring clothes that seemed too simple for someone like him, too ordinary. He didn't even know his name properly yet, but the word felt heavy in his mind. He was the one who would guide him, would shape him into something more.
But was he ready for this? Was he ready to let another person teach him when everything inside him screamed to take action now, to rush into the Black Tower and take back his sister, to make them pay for what they'd done?
Jon's voice interrupted his thoughts, gentle but firm. "It's a lot to take in, huh?"
Sarion didn't reply right away, his mind still reeling with confusion and sorrow. Instead, he simply nodded.
Jon seemed to sense the uncertainty, and his voice softened a little more. "Don't worry, kid. You're safe here."
...
Sarion finished the last bite of his breakfast, the warmth of the meal lingering in his stomach. The food was simple but good—scrambled eggs, freshly baked bread, and a bowl of warm porridge with a sprinkle of berries on top. It wasn't much, but it was comforting, the flavors far better than he had expected, considering Jon's joke about being a cook. The eggs were fluffy, the bread soft and slightly toasted, and the porridge had just the right balance of sweetness.
He set his spoon down quietly, savoring the last of the meal. The morning sun shone through the window, casting a soft glow over the room as he glanced over at Jon. The man was sitting on a couch, his muscular frame relaxed, absorbed in a book. His large, calloused hands turned the pages slowly, as if every word held importance.
Sarion's curiosity couldn't be contained for long. His eyes lingered on the book in Jon's hands. He had always loved reading—he had devoured every text he could get his hands on back at home, fascinated by the histories of distant lands, the legendary heroes of old, and the battles that shaped the world. His favorite stories had always been the ones about the great heroes, their struggles and triumphs, their sacrifices for a greater cause.
After a moment, Sarion spoke up, his voice quieter than usual. "What are you reading about?"
Jon looked up from the book, offering Sarion a warm smile. He closed the book gently before placing it down on the couch beside him. "The Battle of Hope," he replied with a simple nod.
Sarion's eyes lit up when he heard the name of the battle. His curiosity piqued, he leaned forward slightly, a spark of excitement flashing in his expression. "Ohh, the battle that finished the Black Emperor's rule, right?" he asked eagerly, not even waiting for confirmation.
Jon nodded, looking down at his book. "I'm reading a new version released by the Historian Lukar Storman."
Sarion's eyes brightened slightly, the name sparking recognition. "I've heard of him," he said, his voice a bit more animated. "He always goes through major events in the world and corrects all the false rumors. He sticks only to the facts." His tone reflected admiration, a child's respect for someone who seeks truth in a world often clouded by exaggeration and lies.
Jon gave a small smile at Sarion's enthusiasm and then asked, "What do you think happened to the Black Emperor?"
Sarion hesitated for a moment, his young face serious. He recalled the stories, the legends, the unanswered questions surrounding the Black Emperor. His fingers curled slightly around the edge of his plate, and he finally answered, "He died, right?" The question lingered in the air, filled with the innocence of a child, but also the weight of a tragic past that still haunted him.
Jon chuckled softly, shaking his head. "That is actually a false rumor that spread and became the truth for many. In reality... He escaped, and was never caught as far as we know."
Sarion's eyes widened in disbelief. "Impossible," he muttered under his breath, unable to process the words. He leaned forward slightly, his brow furrowing with confusion and suspicion. "If he's alive, then..." His voice trailed off as his mind raced.
The thought hit him like a sharp, sudden wave. What if the Black Emperor came back?
For a moment, fear gripped his chest. The memory of the stories he'd heard about the Black Emperor's reign—the terror he spread, the power he wielded that had bent the world to his will for a thousand years. The one ruler to dominate every land, every kingdom, and every soul. The mere thought of his return sent a chill down Sarion's spine.
His heart began to race. He had heard the legends—how the Black Emperor had crushed any who dared to oppose him, how he had stood as a symbol of unstoppable might.
The very thought of such a person coming back into the world shook him to his core.
"No..." Sarion whispered, the words caught in his throat. "That can't happen, right? Not again."
Jon smiled, enjoying the little boy's reaction, "Who knows?"
Sarion couldn't help but feel a tinge of fear. His mind raced with the possibility of the Black Emperor's return. A voice suddenly cut through his thoughts, feminine and young: "Stop scaring the little boy, Jon."
Sarion turned, his eyes catching the figure of a silver-haired young woman standing near the doorway. Her beauty was striking—delicate features framed by long, flowing silver hair, currently tied back into a neat ponytail.
Her clothes were simple yet well-made, a stark contrast to her elegant presence. A silver sword was strapped to her waist, gleaming slightly in the morning light that filtered through the room.
She stood with a confident but warm air, a slight smile curling at the corners of her lips as she met Sarion's gaze.
Sarion blinked, still processing the unexpected interruption. The woman's gaze softened when she saw his confusion, and she stepped closer, her movements fluid and graceful. The silver sword at her side swayed slightly as she moved, a natural accompaniment to her presence.
"Don't mind Jon," she said with a playful smirk, her voice warm and soothing. "He's always got stories that leave people thinking too much."
Sarion tilted his head, still uncertain but feeling a sense of comfort from her tone.
She lowered herself slightly, coming down to his level, her posture still poised, but softer now. "I'm Nin," she added, "And from now on, I'll be looking out for you."
Sarion hesitated for a moment, surprised by her kindness.
"Sarion," he said quietly. "Thanks for being nice to me." He didn't add anything more, his mind still racing with the weight of his memories, but there was a slight sense of calm settling over him.
Nin ruffled his hair gently, her touch surprisingly tender. "No need to thank me. We're all family here." Her eyes softened as she looked at him as if seeing something hidden behind the young boy's hardened exterior. "Now, how about we go get some fresh air? The sun's up, and it's a nice day to get some training in." She stood and offered him a hand, waiting for him to follow her.
Sarion's gaze flickered to the window behind her, the sunlight streaming through the open curtain. He could feel the weight of his thoughts lifting just a little, and for the first time in a while, he felt something resembling hope. "Training?" he asked, his voice a little more eager now. "Like... with a sword?"
Nin chuckled lightly, a soft, melodic sound. "We'll start with the basics, Ion. But we'll get there. Don't worry."
Sarion felt a little weird about the nickname but didn't say anything. He simply nodded, focusing instead on her sword.
His gaze lingered on the gleaming silver blade, its flawless surface reflecting the light, almost as if it had a life of its own. Nin noticed his intense stare, and her smile grew wider. "You like it, huh?" she asked, her voice light. "Well, I'm alright with a sword."
Jon, who had been reading his book, burst into laughter at her words. "Alright?" he repeated with a teasing grin. "That's why they call you the Silver Sword, huh? 'Cause you're just alright with a sword?" He chuckled heartily, clearly enjoying the playful jab.
Nin just rolled her eyes, unfazed by Jon's teasing. "If you say so, Jon," she muttered, though there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes. She paid him no more attention and turned her focus back to Sarion.
The little boy, however, couldn't hold back the excitement that bubbled up inside him. His eyes widened in awe, his mouth slightly agape. "You're... the Silver Sword?" he asked, his voice full of wonder. His heart raced at the realization.
Nin nodded slightly, a small, humble smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Yeah, that's me," she said casually.
Jon let out a soft laugh, clearly enjoying Sarion's reaction. He leaned back on the couch, watching the exchange with a satisfied look. "It's not every day you meet a legend," he said, chuckling at the awe on the young boy's face.
Sarion's mind swirled with excitement. To think he was standing in front of the Silver Sword, someone who had earned a title so well known that it rang in his memory. He couldn't believe it.
Sarion's mind raced as he processed what Nin had just said. The Silver Sword... He had heard stories of her, of course, but to actually be standing in front of her, speaking to her—it felt unreal.
He had heard that the Silver Sword trained at the prestigious Court of Saviors, the most renowned knight school in the world, where only the best warriors in the world were shaped into legends. He had also heard that she had once contended with the Flower Sword, another legendary swordswoman who was the hero of the Solfian Kingdom. The two of them had been fierce rivals, their rivalry so famous that it was known far and wide. From what Sarion last remembered, the Flower Sword had grown stronger than Nin, surpassing her in skill.
But none of that mattered now. He was standing in front of her. The Silver Sword. In the flesh.
His eyes widened slightly, awe overtaking his features as his gaze flitted over her, taking in the details. This was someone who had fought in legendary battles, who had been the subject of songs and stories. This was someone who had been through things that Sarion could only imagine.
He felt a sense of disbelief wash over him, but it didn't last long. There was a burning excitement in his chest, something that made him want to learn, to hear the stories she could tell, to know what it was like to wield a sword as legendary as hers.
Nin caught his gaze, her smile softening as she noticed the wonder in his eyes. She wasn't someone who typically sought recognition, but seeing the boy so amazed gave her a sense of quiet pride. Despite the teasing from Jon, Sarion's awe was something she couldn't ignore.
Jon, enjoying the atmosphere, chuckled under his breath at Sarion's reaction. "Yeah," he said with a teasing grin. "You're standing in front of a living legend."
Sarion didn't answer. He simply beamed up at Nin, his excitement practically radiating off of him.
Nin laughed softly, shaking her head, as she waved her hand dismissively. "Nah, no legend here," she said with a modest shrug. "Just a normal young woman."
She paused for a moment, a playful glint in her eyes, and then added, "Besides, even if I were famous, I'd never reach the Shadow Assassin's level of fame." Her smile remained, but there was a hint of admiration in her voice as she mentioned the name.
At the sound of Shadow Assassin, Sarion froze for a moment. The mention of that name stirred a strange mix of emotions within him. His heart skipped, and a knot formed in his stomach. In his kingdom, Decartium, the Shadow Assassin was known for his ruthless reputation—an infamous killer who had assassinated many nobles without a second thought. His name was whispered in fear by those who lived in the shadow of his legacy. People called him evil, a monster.
But, Sarion thought, as he looked down at the floor, feeling the weight of the conflicting thoughts, the Shadow Assassin had also saved him. He had rescued him from the Black Tower's members the night before, pulling him out of the chaos and protecting him from the flames that had consumed his home. Without the Shadow Assassin, he might not be standing here now. And, even more than that, he knew that it wasn't just him—many others had survived that night because of the presence of the Shadow Assassin, because of his actions.
Sarion's emotions were a tangled mess. How could someone be so feared, so hated, yet so... helpful? The Shadow Assassin had brought him to safety, and Sarion had no way of understanding why he'd been saved, why he was now here in this strange new place.
Nin noticed his hesitation and the shift in his expression, but she didn't push him to talk about it. She knew that the Shadow Assassin's name carried weight, and it wasn't something anyone could easily reconcile. Not even she had all the answers.
"Don't worry about it too much," Nin added, her voice softer now. "The Shadow Assassin does what he does. And whatever your thoughts are, you can figure them out in time."
Sarion didn't respond immediately. He simply nodded, the confusion still swirling in his young mind as he tried to process everything that had happened. All he knew was that he had been saved. But the question of why... that would have to wait.
Nin stood up from where she had been waiting, her silver sword resting lightly against her side. She turned to Sarion with a smile, the expression full of warmth but also a hint of challenge. "Come on, Ion. Let's head to the backyard and get started with your training."
Sarion nodded eagerly, following her out of the room, his mind buzzing with the prospect of training with the Silver Sword herself. As he moved toward the door, he glanced back at Jon, who was still comfortably seated on the couch, absorbed in his book. Jon caught his eye and offered a small, knowing smile.
"Have a good time, Sarion," Jon called out casually, not bothering to look up from his reading.
Sarion responded with a quiet nod, the weight of Jon's words lingering in his mind as they stepped outside. The fresh air greeted him, cool against his skin. The backyard was spacious, with a few scattered targets and some simple training tools laid out. Sarion's gaze wandered briefly over the area, taking in the open space where his training would soon begin.
Nin, already ahead of him, moved toward the center of the yard with a fluid grace. She turned to face him, waiting expectantly. Sarion stepped forward, adjusting his posture, the excitement of the moment taking hold of him. This was it—his chance to learn, to become stronger.
Jon's presence faded behind them as they left the house, but the encouragement in his voice echoed in Sarion's thoughts.
Nin's smile was still there, a subtle invitation to begin. The young boy took a deep breath and stepped into the yard, ready for whatever challenge lay ahead.
—End of Chapter.