The campfire crackled under the twilight sky, throwing sparks into the air like fleeting stars. Arkan sat apart from the others, his hood low over his brow. He had been with the Brotherhood for weeks now, performing small errands: carrying coded messages between outposts, guiding merchants through alleys too dangerous to cross alone, even sweeping the training yard when no one else would. They were menial tasks, yet he clung to them, knowing that each one was a step—however small—toward acceptance.
But doubt gnawed at him like a rat in the dark. He was not like the others. The assassins around him moved like predators, their bodies honed and their eyes sharp with years of training. He was just Arkan: a boy from another world, an echo of a modern life where his greatest battles had been fought with pixels and buttons.
That evening, Malik—the mentor assigned to watch over him—approached. His presence was commanding without effort. He carried the weight of countless missions, his face lined by scars that were not merely wounds but stories.
"You are restless," Malik observed, sitting across from him.
Arkan did not deny it. "I watch them, the others. They leap, they fight, they climb as though born to it. I… I stumble. Every task I complete feels like pity work."
Malik's gaze sharpened. "Do you think we were born blades in the dark? No, boy. We were shaped by suffering. By failure. Even now, you are shaping yourself, though you cannot yet see it."
Arkan clenched his fists. "But I am weak."
Malik leaned forward, his tone cutting like steel. "Weakness is not permanent. It is a shadow that flees when you step into the light. You have survived hunger these past weeks, survived the streets where even thieves fear to walk. That is no weakness."
For the first time, Arkan felt the ember of pride warm within his chest. Yet he still feared. He lowered his voice. "And what if I cannot change? What if I fail you all?"
Malik's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. "Then you will fail as one of us, and rise again as one of us. Here, you are no longer alone. We are Brotherhood. Family. You will learn this, even if it must be carved into your soul."
The words struck Arkan deeper than he expected. Brotherhood. Family. In his old world, he had been a loner, his closest bonds with faceless voices across glowing screens. Now, for the first time, he felt the fragile beginnings of belonging.
That night, he dreamed not of death or exile, but of shadows moving together as one—an unbroken chain of assassins stretching across time.
When dawn came, he was summoned to the central yard. The master of the camp, a stern man known simply as Idris, stood waiting. The yard was silent, save for the whisper of the wind.
"Arkan," Idris said, his voice heavy with command, "you have carried messages. You have run errands. You have seen the edges of our world. Now it is time to step into its heart."
Arkan's pulse quickened. He glanced at Malik, who gave the faintest nod of encouragement.
Idris continued, "Your next trial is not one of menial labor. You will leave the safety of this camp. You will see cruelty with your own eyes. And you will choose whether to bear it—or to strike against it."
A hush fell over the yard. The weight of destiny pressed upon Arkan's shoulders. For the first time since entering this world, he felt not like a lost boy fumbling in the dark, but like someone standing on the edge of something vast and irreversible.
As the Brotherhood dispersed, Malik placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Steel is forged in fire," the mentor whispered. "You are about to meet yours."