By the time Rogue turned fifteen and a half, life at Château de Foncé had become a mixture of discipline, comedy, and explosions—most of which weren't planned.
Lucien called it "education."
Rogue called it "slow torture disguised as character development."
He had learned many useful things over the years: how to track a creature by the taste of the air, how to reload a crossbow while running, and how to tell the difference between a priest's sermon and a confession disguised as one. He could also tell which of the kitchen maids believed the eyepatch hummed in moonlight—because they crossed themselves every time he entered the pantry.
Lucien said that paranoia was good for morale. "Keeps them alert," he'd muttered.
"Or terrified," Rogue replied.
"Same thing."
Swordsmanship was now second nature, though the eyepatch still gave him grief. He had developed a fighting style based on misdirection—faking openings, predicting movement rather than seeing it. Lucien called it "reckless brilliance."
"Most men fight with two eyes and half a brain," Lucien said one morning, watching Rogue parry and spin. "You fight with one eye and double the stupidity. It balances out."
Rogue smirked. "So I'm twice as clever, then?"
Lucien threw him a wooden sword. "Try surviving first."
Their duels often drew an audience. The guards would stop patrolling, the maids would line up near the courtyard wall, and the priests would gather in silent panic in case the "holy seal" flew off mid-swing. Once, when Rogue's eyepatch slipped during combat, three priests fainted on the spot. Lucien laughed for a solid minute before saying, "You've got a gift, boy. You don't even need to fight to win."
Archery remained his worst subject. Rogue had improved—slightly—but his bolts still had a habit of wandering. Lucien once asked him to hit a tree twenty paces away. Rogue hit a bucket, a branch, and a terrified chicken in that order.
"The important thing," Lucien said calmly, "is that you're consistent."
"Consistently bad."
"That's still consistent."
The next week, Lucien blindfolded him entirely. "If you can't hit what you see, hit what you feel."
Rogue loosed a bolt that whistled past Lucien's ear and buried itself in the target's center.
Lucien turned slowly. "…you did that on purpose, didn't you?"
Rogue grinned. "Maybe."
Lucien sighed. "You're going to give me gray hair."
"You already have gray hair."
"Then I'll blame you for the rest of it."
Lucien's approach to education was unorthodox, to put it mildly. He taught Rogue to think like prey, not predator. "A hunter who never hides will be the first to die."
He made him study footprints, claw marks, bone structures. He even had him sit in the woods for entire nights, listening. "The forest talks," Lucien said. "You just don't understand its language yet."
One night, Rogue swore he heard laughter in the distance.
"Wind," Lucien said.
"It said my name."
Lucien looked at him. "…Still wind."
Sometimes, the older man told stories of hunts long past—of the Silver Fangs, of monsters that bled shadows, of comrades who never returned.
"Why did you stop hunting?" Rogue asked once.
Lucien ran a thumb over the hilt of his sword. "Didn't stop. Just changed what I was chasing."
Rogue frowned. "What's that?"
"Peace and good whiskey. Harder to find."
The boy had laughed, but he noticed how Lucien never smiled when he told those stories.
The nearby villages adored Rogue—or at least the idea of him. They called him the Blessed Son, the boy whose sealed eye kept darkness from spreading. Pilgrims even came to the gates sometimes, asking for blessings or relics. One farmer once offered Henri a bag of grain in exchange for "a single eyelash from the miracle child." Henri politely declined and increased the guard patrols.
The Church encouraged the myth. It made good politics, and faith needed faces. So the letters came often—benedictions, commendations, requests for appearances he was too young to accept. Lucien used them as fire starters. "Holy paper burns better," he said with a shrug. Rogue pretended not to notice.
The day it happened began like any other: sword drills at dawn, trap practice at noon, and crossbow humiliation after lunch. By mid-afternoon, Rogue was in the stables, brushing down his horse—a black mare named Solane—while Lucien lectured him about "discipline."
"Every hunter has three enemies," Lucien said. "Fear, pride, and boredom. Fear keeps you alive, pride gets you killed, boredom makes you stupid."
Rogue stroked the horse's neck. "Which one's worse?"
Lucien thought for a moment. "Whichever one's winning."
"Deep," Rogue said dryly.
"Don't get used to it."
Their easy banter was interrupted by the sound of galloping hooves outside the gate. Moments later, a guard stumbled in—breathless, dust-covered, clutching a sealed letter with trembling hands.
"Sir Lucien! Lord Henri! A messenger from the Cathedral!"
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "They still remember this place exists?"
The guard held out the letter like it was cursed. "It bears the golden seal of the Grand Inquisitor."
Rogue's stomach dropped. Nothing good ever came with golden seals.
Henri de Foncé gathered everyone in the great hall—the priests, Lucien, Céleste, and Rogue himself. The messenger, pale from exhaustion, knelt before him and presented the envelope. The wax bore the sigil of the Witch Hunter Academy: a blazing sun over crossed swords.
Henri broke the seal carefully and unfolded the parchment. The words were written in formal script, shimmering faintly with golden ink.
By decree of the Grand Inquisitor of the Sun Cathedral,The Church recognizes the divine protection and exceptional potential of Rogue de Foncé, son of Baron Henri de Foncé.He is hereby invited to enroll in the Witch Hunter Academy of the Holy City of Lumerra.Training will commence upon the turning of his sixteenth year.May his light burn the shadows of the world.
The hall was silent for a heartbeat. Then chaos erupted.
Céleste gasped, clutching her hands together. "My boy, a Witch Hunter! Oh, Henri, can you imagine?"
Henri, who had not smiled that wide in years, stood tall and proud. "A de Foncé in the ranks of the Church's finest! The Empire will remember this day!"
Lucien just took a slow sip from his flask. "Well," he muttered, "that'll either make him famous or dead."
Rogue blinked. "So… school?"
"Academy," Henri corrected, practically glowing. "The highest honor the Church can bestow."
Lucien nodded. "Also the fastest way to get you killed by homework and politics."
Within hours, the entire castle was in uproar. The priests sang hymns. The servants packed trunks before anyone asked them to. Even the stablehands started polishing horses that weren't leaving.
Céleste fluttered about like a hurricane of lace and anxiety. "You'll need new clothes, travel rations, a blessing charm—no, three blessing charms—"
"Mother, I'm not going to war," Rogue said helplessly.
She scoffed, stuffing a sachet of herbs into his pocket.
Lucien supervised from the corner, arms crossed. "Don't bother with the herbs. Bring rope, oil, and patience instead."
Henri shot him a look. "Must you ruin every sentimental moment?"
Lucien shrugged. "It's how I pray."
That evening, when the excitement had faded into quiet celebration, Rogue found himself alone on the balcony outside his room. The sun was sinking, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The eyepatch felt heavier than usual.
Lucien approached behind him, his footsteps soft. "Big day," he said.
Rogue nodded. "Feels strange. Like everything's about to change."
"It is," Lucien said. "The world's bigger than this castle. Meaner too."
"I'm ready."
Lucien leaned on the railing. "No one's ever ready. But you'll learn fast. You've got something the rest don't."
"Charm?"
Lucien chuckled. "Bad eyesight. Makes you cautious."
They stood there for a long moment, watching the sky turn gold to red.
Later that night, Henri came to his room carrying a small box. Inside was a new eyepatch—thicker leather, lined with golden thread, stitched with the family crest and a faint rune of protection.
"This is for your journey," Henri said softly. "It's not the Church's blessing—it's ours. To remind you who you are, even when you're far from home."
Rogue smiled faintly. "You think I'll need reminding?"
Henri's eyes softened. "Everyone forgets themselves a little, out there. Promise me you'll remember who you fight for."
Rogue nodded. "I promise."
Henri rested a hand on his shoulder. "Good. Then go become the bane of witches. Make them fear the name de Foncé."
When his father left, Rogue sat on the edge of his bed, holding the new eyepatch in his hands. It gleamed faintly in the candlelight, gold catching against the leather's dark surface—light and shadow stitched together.
He fastened it carefully over his left eye, then looked at his reflection. For a moment, he almost didn't recognize the young man staring back. He wasn't just the cursed boy anymore. He was something else—something beginning.
The eyepatch didn't hum. The air didn't change. But deep down, Rogue felt it—the faintest pulse from the left eye beneath the leather. Like a whisper.
Witch Hunter Academy.
A slow grin spread across his face. "Guess it's time to go learn how to kill witches properly."
Outside, thunder rolled across the hills as if in approval.