Godwin Era, Cozmo-39 'Silvermoon'
The forest held its breath. No birds. No wind. Just the faint whisper of leaves trembling in the fading light. Mikayle crouched on the hill, muscles coiled, eyes locked on the faint trail winding through the trees. Every sense screamed: watch. wait. survive.
He tugged his scarf higher, hiding a trembling breath. Not for coin today. Today was a lesson. Today was learning the shadow his master called life. He glanced down at the twisting path below, the scent of damp earth sharp in his nose. Somewhere, faint but distinct, hooves struck mud, a soft rhythm that set his pulse racing.
A snap of a twig made him flinch. The forest seemed to shift, shadows stretching like claws. And then he saw him — the master.
He appeared from shadow, grey streaks glowing in the dying light. His face, carved by decades of survival, spoke of silent storms and battles fought without applause. Cloak tattered, yet flowing like it had a life of its own, he moved as if the forest itself obeyed him. Two daggers gleamed faintly at his belt, sharp as his gaze, sharper still in intent.
Mikayle swallowed. Every motion. Every pause. Watch, and remember.
"Master… are they coming, or just wasting time?" he whispered.
A low, dry chuckle answered. "Mask on, kiddo," the master said, voice calm, cold, and unyielding.
The master's hand drew the wooden mask from his pocket — carved, intricate, a single eye etched at the forehead with three daggers blazing in its pupil. When he slid it on, he became something other than human: predator, shadow, judgment made flesh.
Mikayle tugged his scarf higher, hiding the edge of his mouth. Not just protection. A doorway. A glimpse of what he might one day become.
The first carriage appeared, jolting violently in the mud. Horses strained, wheels stuck. Inside, two boys sat frozen. The red-haired one hugged his knees, trembling, eyes wide and alive with innocent terror. The smaller boy, dark-haired and pale, peered from the corner, eyes sharp, yet exhausted beyond his years.
Mikayle's fists clenched. I can't fail them.
The second carriage's guards surged forward. And then the dance began.
A guard lunged. The master sidestepped, spinning a dagger into the mud at his feet. He slipped, cursing, and Mikayle's chest tightened. Every motion — fluid. Inevitable. Death as lesson.
Another guard charged. The master flicked a branch with his boot; it struck the man's face, sending him sprawling. Mud splashed, wood snapped, and the metallic tang of fear filled the air. Mikayle's heartbeat drummed: remember, every move, every pause.
Vaulting onto the carriage roof, dagger flashing, the master landed behind another guard. One strike to the shoulder, the man collapsed silently. Mikayle's eyes widened. Every detail. Every instinct.
Two guards flanked him. He dropped into shadow, misdirecting them. Panic flickered in their eyes. A spinning kick, a jab — precise, lethal.
A guard lunged from the front. Wrist caught, elbow to the knee. Both fell groaning. Mikayle's palms were sweaty. I must see it all. Every strike.
Four remained. Hesitation danced in their eyes. One whispered, trembling, "Who… who is this?!"
A dagger flew, and the master slipped into the carriage, shadows swallowing him. He struck two from the left, two from the right, spinning, striking, vanishing. The last two hesitated — then collapsed silently, mud and sunlight glinting off their bodies.
Mikayle moved, crouched behind the third carriage, looting trivial silver trinkets. Minor coin. Worthless. His eyes were fixed on the master, learning. Learning everything.
The first carriage remained trapped. Inside, the boys clutched each other, alive, trembling. Relief brushed Mikayle's chest. They're safe. For now.
"So… what did we get today? Diamond or gold?" the master called, voice calm, almost playful.
"Two chickens, boss!" Mikayle yelled, sarcasm lacing his voice, adrenaline making it sharp.
The master grimaced, focus unbroken. He crouched beside a groaning guard, dagger in hand. "Can't even stand?" he muttered.
Mikayle watched him, awe mingled with fear. This was more than skill. It was judgment, discipline, power shaped like fire.
A hush settled. The master's eyes scanned the forest. Mikayle mirrored him, senses coiled, absorbing every flick, every breath, every motion. A lesson in death, yes — but more than that: a lesson in intent.
He glanced back at the trapped carriage. The red-haired boy clutched himself, fear raw and shaking. The smaller boy's green eyes followed him, calculating, wary. "You… you're one of them?" the boy asked quietly.
Mikayle shook his head. "I'm… learning," he said. Partial truth. Better than lies.
The master finished the last of the slavers. Silence fell. The forest drank the metallic tang in the air, only leaves rustling faintly in reply. Mikayle closed his eyes. The smell, the rhythm, the predator's flow. A heartbeat, a lesson, a spark.
He opened his eyes. The master approached, eyes sharp, measuring. A nod — small, almost imperceptible — weighty. You saw. You learned. Remember this.
The red-haired boy blinked, fragile, terrified. "Why… why are you helping us?"
"Because those who sell freedom for coin are beneath contempt. Begging doesn't save them. And neither will hesitation," the master said, cold, precise.
Mikayle's gaze moved from the boys to the master. He felt the pull of choice — the strange gravity of power, of responsibility. Survival was no longer instinct. It was deliberate. Focused. Necessary.
He exhaled slowly, letting tension drain, but he knew: this was only the beginning. The forest, the lesson, the mask, the master — it had all shifted him. The edge of his world had sharpened, and he had felt it.
The sun dipped below the horizon, setting the treetops aflame. Shadows stretched, swallowed the trail, and the master's mask glinted, a single unblinking eye of judgment. Mikayle tugged his scarf lower, heart pounding, chest tight, aware that nothing would ever feel safe again.
This world is cruel.I must survive.I must protect those who cannot fight.And deep, beneath fear and awe, a seed stirred. A sense that the forest — the world — had noticed him. That destiny was watching. Waiting. And when it acted… it would not be merciful.
The master's voice broke the silence, soft now. "Lesson over… for today."
Mikayle exhaled, letting the weight of blood, mud, and shadow settle around him. But he already knew — this lesson, this night, this first taste of death and judgment — it would follow him forever.
And so, beneath the crimson sunset and stretching shadows, Mikayle took the first step into a world that demanded power, demanded choice, demanded everything from those who wished to survive.