The priests said the boy carried sunlight in one eye and darkness in the other. The servants said the eyepatch kept the darkness from leaking out at night.
Rogue de Foncé said it made him terrible at crossbows.
At fifteen, he had grown lean and restless—red-haired, sharp-smiled, and perpetually annoyed by the piece of black leather strapped across the left side of his face. The eyepatch was stitched with golden thread in the Sun God's sigil, supposedly "to seal away corruption." Only his parents knew the truth: that it sealed something far stranger than corruption.
Everyone else simply treated it like a sacred relic.
When he sneezed, the priests blessed him. When he yawned, the maids crossed themselves. One even claimed the eyepatch glowed faintly at midnight; Rogue had checked once with a mirror and candle. It didn't. But he left the rumor alone—it made people nicer.
Sir Lucien Ardent arrived when Rogue was thirteen, sent by the Church as his "protector." The man looked nothing like the holy knights Rogue had imagined as a child.
No shining armor, no golden halo. Just scars, leather, and a sword that hummed faintly when drawn. His coat hung heavy with silver buckles; his boots could kick down faith itself. A veteran of the Order of the Silver Fangs, Lucien hunted werewolves, not ideals.
Their first exchange set the tone for everything that followed.
Lucien squinted. "You're smaller than I expected."
Rogue scowled. "You're older than you look."
Lucien grinned. "Then we're both disappointments."
From that moment on, their relationship was built on insults, bruises, and the occasional lesson.
Training began before dawn—because, according to Lucien, "monsters don't wait for breakfast."
Sword practice came first. Rogue moved well enough for a boy who'd spent half his life indoors, but the missing depth perception from the eyepatch made every thrust a gamble.
"Keep your guard up," Lucien barked. "You're cutting air, not demons."
"I can't see properly," Rogue snapped.
Lucien walked around him, unimpressed. "Good. You'll learn to feel instead. Sight makes men lazy."
"That sounds wise," Rogue said, swinging again.
"It's not. I made it up."
He missed the dummy and nearly hit the fence. Lucien sighed. "Next time, aim for something expensive. It builds focus."
By noon they switched to crossbows. Rogue discovered the worst possible truth: one-eyed shooting was misery.
His first bolt missed the target entirely and landed in a priest's laundry line.
Lucien didn't even blink. "Congratulations. You've executed a tunic."
"It's the eyepatch!" Rogue complained. "I can't judge distance."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "Then take it off."
"I'm not allowed. The priests said it keeps evil spirits in."
"Does it?"
Rogue shrugged. "Maybe. Sometimes it keeps good aim out."
Lucien grunted and re-set the target farther away. "Then you'll just have to learn to miss from a longer distance."
That afternoon, Lucien introduced traps. "A man who can't see perfectly should make the world stumble instead," he explained.
They spent hours laying rope snares and silver-dust lines through the forest. Rogue's first trap caught himself. His second caught Lucien's boot. His third caught a passing priest who was collecting mushrooms. The priest took it as divine punishment, confessed to several minor sins, and hobbled back to the castle in tears.
Lucien lit a pipe. "Three attempts, three confessions. You're improving."
Rogue groaned. "If I survive your lessons, I'll be a legend."
Lucien smirked. "Or a warning. Either's useful."
Despite the bruises, Rogue learned quickly. He could hear a twig snap fifty paces away and tell which direction the wind would carry a scent. His right eye grew keener, compensating for what the left concealed. Lucien called it "the hunter's sense."
But the eyepatch never let him forget what separated him from everyone else.
It itched during sword drills, slid down during sprints, and once soaked up so much rain he felt like he was training with a wet napkin stuck to his face.
Lucien refused to sympathize. "That's the price of holiness," he said dryly.
"It's the price of sweat," Rogue muttered.
The older man chuckled. "Same thing."
Even the castle staff treated the patch like an artifact. A maid once tried to polish it while he slept; the shriek she made when he woke up startled half the keep. Henri forbade anyone from touching it again.
The priests sometimes asked to "renew its blessing." Rogue endured the rituals with saintly patience, mostly because they always gave him pastries afterward.
Life under Lucien became a cycle of chaos and camaraderie.
He'd wake before sunrise, stumble into the yard half-awake, and be greeted by Lucien's voice: "Sword up, eyes open, complaints later."
By midday, he'd be bruised, sweaty, and ready to trade his noble title for a nap. By evening, he'd be back in the woods, watching Lucien dismantle a snare to explain "why thinking like prey makes you a better hunter."
Rogue learned how to bait traps with scent, how to layer them so that even intelligent beasts were fooled. Lucien called it the art of misdirection.
"It's not about catching the monster," he said one evening, tightening a knot. "It's about making it believe you're the fool. Monsters love that. Makes them arrogant."
Rogue grinned. "Like you?"
Lucien gave him a long look. "Keep talking. The next trap might be yours."
Evenings were calmer. They sat by the hearth polishing weapons, Lucien telling half-finished stories of past hunts.
"One in the northern hills," he'd say, eyes distant. "Biggest werewolf I ever saw. Clever, too. Lured us with screams that sounded human."
"What happened?"
"Half my men followed the voice. The other half followed their guts. Guess which half lived."
Rogue frowned. "You?"
Lucien smirked. "Barely. Learned something that night: sometimes the monster's smarter than the man."
"And you kept hunting them?"
Lucien sipped his drink. "That's how you apologize to the dead."
Rogue fell silent after that, staring at the fire until it blurred.
The next day's practice was lighter. Sword, crossbow, traps—then running drills.
Rogue hated running drills.
The eyepatch threw off his balance; stones appeared from nowhere; trees played hide-and-seek with his forehead. Once he ran straight into Lucien's back.
"You're supposed to dodge me," Lucien said without turning around.
"Couldn't see you."
"Good. Means I'm teaching stealth properly."
Rogue considered tripping him and decided against it—barely.
By the time he turned fifteen, even the guards respected him. He trained with them, sparred with them, and occasionally beat them—though they claimed they let him win because of the "holy seal."
He'd long given up correcting them.
When a crossbow bolt finally hit dead center one afternoon, the captain clapped and shouted, "Praise the Sun! The blessing works!"
Lucien muttered, "Praise patience."
Rogue bowed theatrically. "See? Even miracles improve with practice."
At home, things were calmer but not less amusing.
Céleste fussed over his bruises, calling Lucien "that wolf-skinned barbarian." Henri pretended disapproval but secretly admired the man's methods—especially after the local werewolf sightings dropped to none.
The priests continued their daily blessings. Once, one asked timidly if they could touch the eyepatch just once to "feel the holy presence." Rogue smiled kindly and said, "You first." The priest declined.
In truth, everyone feared the patch. It was protection, symbol, and myth all at once. Children bowed when he passed in the village, mothers whispered prayers, and even the dogs hesitated to bark at him.
Lucien found the whole thing hilarious. "Enjoy it while it lasts. Once you're grown, they'll stop calling you blessed and start asking for help."
"Help with what?" Rogue asked.
"Killing everything they're afraid of."
Sometimes, when the training was done and the castle quieted, Rogue would take off the patch in private. He'd stare into the mirror—the golden eye bright, the dark one faintly violet. The reflection always looked slightly older than he felt, as though it had seen more than it should.
He'd cover it again quickly. His mother's words still echoed in his mind: Keep it hidden. The world isn't ready to understand you.
He wasn't sure he was ready either.
One evening near midsummer, Lucien joined him on the ramparts. The sky was awash with orange and gold; the wind smelled of pine and rain.
"You're improving," Lucien said, leaning on the parapet. "Your footing's better. You only hit yourself with the crossbow once this week."
"Twice," Rogue corrected. "I just didn't scream the second time."
"Pride," Lucien nodded approvingly. "That's progress."
They shared a comfortable silence.
"Tell me," Rogue said after a while, "what do the Silver Fangs do when there are no werewolves?"
Lucien took a sip from his flask. "Wait. Something always howls eventually."
Rogue smiled faintly. "You ever get tired of waiting?"
Lucien's eyes softened. "Every day. That's why I train you. Gives me something worth waiting for."
The boy blinked, surprised. "That almost sounded like affection."
"Careful," Lucien said, straight-faced. "You'll ruin my reputation."
Rogue laughed, loud and honest, and for once the echo that came back from the hills sounded warm.
That night, as the castle settled into sleep, Rogue sat at his desk sharpening a small dagger. The firelight flickered on the golden threads of his eyepatch. He thought of Lucien's words, of the forest beyond the walls, of the weight in his chest that wasn't fear anymore—just anticipation.
He was nearly sixteen. In this world, that meant adulthood. Freedom. Duty. Adventure.
He leaned back in his chair, smiling to himself.
"Almost there," he whispered. "Let's see what the world looks like when it finally blinks first."
The eyepatch stayed still, silent and innocent, pretending to be nothing more than leather. But deep beneath it, something stirred—amused, listening, waiting.