The seasons turned, and the children changed with them.
Their bodies grew firmer, their mana steadier, their spells sharper. Kairo's crimson eyes burned brighter with each spar, Igron's illusions became frighteningly real, Selaih carried her strange light like a secret flame, and the others found their own rhythm between earth, fire, water, and steel.
The man watched them with pride, though the lines of fatigue deepened across his face. His voice remained steady, but his steps grew heavier.
One evening, after sending the children ahead, he walked alone down the mountain road, carrying a sack of grain over his shoulder. The air was quiet, too quiet.
The silence broke with the whistle of an arrow.
The grain sack burst as he dropped it, spinning as steel glimmered in the treeline. Figures in dark cloaks stepped out, their movements too precise to be simple thieves. Their eyes glowed faintly under their hoods.
"So you're the one raising them," the tallest said, voice low, dripping with disdain.
The man straightened, blood already seeping from a cut along his arm. "And what if I am?"
"You've ripened them well. The mistress will be pleased."
He spat to the side. "Over my dead body."
The woods erupted into violence. Steel against steel, mana flaring in brief bursts. The man fought like a storm contained in mortal flesh — raw, desperate, driven not by skill alone but by the weight of protecting those waiting for him at home.
But they were many, and he was only one.
By the time the dust settled, the road was silent again. The sack of grain lay torn open, its contents scattered like spilled sand. The man was gone.
Back at the orphanage, the children laughed and sparred, unaware that the one who had been their root and shield was now in the hands of shadows.