Kael bled in the sand again.
Not dramatically. A split lip, a bruised rib. Nothing worth a healer's time. But it was the fourth time this week he'd been knocked flat by some smug recruit who thought breaking the bastard boy with shadow-eyes was a rite of passage.
He didn't mind. Not anymore.
Pain had sharpened him.
Across the sparring ring, Bran offered a hand, breathless and grinning. "You're lasting longer. Next time you might even land a hit."
Kael ignored the hand, got up on his own, and spat blood near Bran's boots.
"That was the hit," he said.
They laughed. Even the instructors noticed. For the first time since he'd arrived, Kael wasn't losing anymore. He wasn't winning either—not yet—but he'd stopped retreating. And Tenebris… Tenebris had stopped whispering only of escape.
Now, it whispered possibility.
Training that day was relentless. Sigil evasion, silent-step patterns, shadow dancing—an old Whisperer art designed to blend movement with ambient shade.
Kael failed half of it.
But the other half? He passed with an ease that unsettled even himself.
He could feel the flow of attention in a room now. He could see shadows curl unnaturally near hidden exits. And during one surprise exercise, he'd blinked through three illusions before the instructor could trigger the ward.
Bran gawked. One of the older recruits muttered something under his breath.
Kael just breathed. Tenebris purred inside his spine.
That afternoon, Ser Whitmer oversaw sparring duels.
It was meant to be friendly. Educational. Controlled.
But nothing was ever quite controlled with Kael.
His opponent was a lanky boy named Renn—third son of some backwater noble, fast with a blade and faster with cruelty. He always fought like he was proving something.
They circled. The rest watched.
Whitmer barked the start.
Renn came in aggressive, swinging in calculated bursts—jabs that forced Kael back, edge by edge. But Kael didn't fall for it. Not this time.
His movements flowed.
He ducked low, turned a feint into a step-side pivot, and blinked behind Renn using the narrow shadow under his boot.
The crowd gasped.
Kael's knife was at Renn's throat before he could blink. A perfect finishing move.
Except… he didn't stop.
His hand pressed harder.
Just a twitch and the blade would bite. Just one lean forward and the warmth of blood would spill and stain the sand like it always did in his dreams.
Renn's breath hitched. "You gonna do it, monster?"
Kael didn't move.
Tenebris surged behind his ribs, hungry.Do it.
The shame. The training beatings. The laughter in the halls. All of it coiled behind his eyes.
The silence grew cold.
Then—
A memory.
Just the night before.
A knock at his door.
And Eline's voice, dry and quiet:
"You're assigned to me. I didn't ask for it. You'll find a way out—won't you?"
No threat. No warmth. Just the weight of unspoken fear.
Kael blinked. His grip loosened.
The knife clattered to the ground. He stepped back, chest rising and falling like he'd run miles.
Whitmer didn't say a word. Just raised one scarred brow.
Kael met his gaze and didn't flinch.
Later, after dusk, Kael sat on the stone wall behind the mess hall, watching the night mist coil between trees like silent dancers. His hand trembled—not from fear. From restraint.
"Could've killed him," a voice said beside him.
Bran.
Kael nodded. "Yeah."
"You didn't."
"Wasn't sure I'd stop."
Bran passed him a cup of something warm. Too bitter to be tea, too sharp to be water. "Welcome to the real Whisperers," he said. "First time you almost go too far, you're still you. It's when you stop hesitating that you've lost."
Kael looked down at his hands. The palms that used to only hold ropes, reins, and bruises. Now, they could wield shadow. They could kill.
"Tenebris liked it," he murmured.
Bran didn't react.
"Sometimes I think it gets stronger when I… let go. When I give it room to move."
"You think it wants you to become a monster?"
Kael laughed softly. "No. I think it wants me to become myself. It's just that I'm not sure I like what that is."
Bran nudged his shoulder. "Then become something better."
Kael drank the bitter tea. It burned like honesty.
That night, he dreamed of the sparring ring again.
But this time, the crowd wore shadow-masks. Every face was his own. And as he blinked behind his opponent once more, the figure turned—
And it was himself on the other end of the knife.
Bleeding. Smiling. Whispering:
"You already crossed the line."