Four years had passed since Luca entered the Belloni estate.
Three winters. Two summers.
He'd grown taller, his face sharper.
But the real change was in his eyes.
He'd learned how to swallow feelings, think without showing it, and listen as if nothing sank in.
Frosted Morning.
The courtyard was white with frost.
Every step a guard took left a faint, brittle crunch on the stone.
The sky was dull and heavy; breath drifted away in thin clouds.
It was a shooting day.
Luca and Marco stood before the outbuilding—half firing range, half close-combat hall, all thick concrete.
"Let's see what you've got today,"
Marco said, idly spinning the pistol before holding it out.
"Twelve's old enough not to buckle under the weight."
Luca took it without a word.
The cold metal seeped into his palm, a shiver slipping up his spine—like a weight his hands had carried before.
A Familiar Unfamiliarity.
He faced the target and drew a deep breath.
The air changed.
The sound of a guard's inhale.
The tilt of a tree in the far distance.
The exact measure between muzzle and target, the pull of the wind—
Every detail clicked into place.
Then, darkness.
The smell of blood hit him.
A burning house.
Dust and gunpowder.
Voices screaming.
The cold hilt of a longsword in his grip.
A black rose falling from someone's hand—his own.
…Adrian Cesare. Your name was written in blood long ago.
His heart thudded twice.
Luca blinked.
His finger was already on the trigger.
The target stood waiting.
The first shot split the range.
Dead center.
One guard glanced at the other.
"Lucky,"
Marco said with a smirk.
"One hit doesn't make you a marksman."
Luca's eyes slid to the guards.
Window.
Three heads turned at once, as if something moved outside.
No one thought it strange.
He aimed again.
This time, the bullet drilled through the target's eye.
Marco's smile froze for half a second.
The Edge in Silence.
Training ended.
Luca set the gun down and headed for the locker room.
Footsteps followed.
"You're good at keeping quiet," Marco said, blocking the hall.
"But silence won't get you far. In this house, fists talk first."
He shifted his weight and gave Luca's shoulder a shove.
His heel slid on the marble, but he didn't lose his balance.
"Keep your head down under me, and I'll let you live."
It sounded like a joke, but his eyes carried something sharper.
Luca met his gaze, then let his own drift—just slightly.
Marco's followed without thinking.
Luca stepped forward.
"Didn't ask you to."
The words were quiet, but the ice in them cut enough to make Marco's smile falter.
Night, and the Shape of a Realization.
That night, Luca sat at the window, looking down at the courtyard.
Under the lamps, the guards changed posts in steady rhythm.
Every path, every glance, every shift in timing—he took it all in.
The vision returned: roses soaked in blood, a burning village, a single gunshot to end it.
Too vivid to be only a dream.
His fingers curled.
Without power, you have no name.
With it… the name is mine to make.
Outside, snow drifted down without a sound.
As the white settled into the dark, the boy's eyes grew deeper—and colder.