The meal ended in silence.
Not an uncomfortable one—just the kind that followed fullness. The servants cleared the table efficiently, leaving behind only the faint warmth of food and the lingering scent of broth.
Leaun sat stiffly, hands folded in his lap, unsure whether he should speak or wait. Raphael had eaten calmly, unhurried, watching the boy now and then with that same unreadable gaze.
At last, Raphael set his cup aside.
"Come," he said, rising from his seat. "Walk with me."
Leaun followed him out into the corridor. Sunlight filtered in through the high windows, casting long lines across the stone floor. They walked side by side for a time without speaking.
Then Raphael stopped.
He looked down at the boy—not with scrutiny, but consideration, as if choosing something carefully.
"You have lived without a name," he said. "That is not a small thing."
Leaun lowered his head. "I didn't need one," he replied honestly.
Raphael regarded him for a moment longer.
"Perhaps," he said. "But here, you will."
The words settled quietly between them.
"From this day onward," Raphael continued, "you shall be called Leaun."
The boy froze.
A name.
Not a title. Not a role. Something given—not taken.
"Leaun…" he whispered, testing the sound as though it might vanish if spoken too loudly.
It stayed.
He bowed deeply, forehead nearly brushing the floor.
"Thank you," he said. There was no flourish in his voice. Only certainty.
Raphael nodded once.
After a brief pause, he asked, almost casually,
"Would you like to learn the way of the sword?"
Leaun looked up, eyes wide. Fear never came—only a quiet resolve.
"If… if you allow it," he said, "I won't complain."
Raphael turned and resumed walking.
"That is enough," he said.
Later that day, Leaun was brought to the training grounds.
The space was vast—larger than any open place he had ever seen. The air rang with the clash of wooden blades, the scrape of boots against packed earth, the sharp cadence of shouted commands.
Veterans trained closer to the center. Their movements were efficient, disciplined, honed by repetition and experience. Trainees filled the outer rings, drilling forms under watchful eyes.
But Leaun was not led to either group.
Instead, Raphael guided him toward a cleared section along the far edge of the grounds—open, visible, yet distinctly apart.
"This is still part of the training grounds," Raphael said, as if sensing the boy's uncertainty. "But your instruction will begin here."
Leaun nodded.
Raphael gestured toward a broad-shouldered man standing near the center ring, arms crossed, gaze sharp enough to silence even veterans.
"This is Albert," Raphael said. "He oversees all training here."
Every movement on the field responded to Albert's presence. Commands halted drills. Corrections were obeyed without question.
Authority—absolute and undisputed.
"He will decide how you are taught," Raphael continued.
Nearby, Kleon was already dressed for practice. When he noticed Leaun, his face lit up.
"You're training too?" Kleon asked, grinning.
Leaun nodded, a little shy.
A wooden sword was placed in Leaun's hands.
Its weight felt wrong—unfamiliar, resistant. He tried to imitate the others, but his stance wavered, his balance faltered, his swings slow and uneven.
It didn't take long.
"Look at him." "He can barely lift it."
Laughter rippled through the trainees.
Leaun tightened his grip—but said nothing.
Kleon did not laugh.
Albert frowned.
Why would the Patriarch bring someone like this here?
He studied Leaun carefully—the poor balance, the strained breathing, the way the sword clearly did not belong in his hands. Then he spoke, his voice calm and deliberate.
"Before we speak of technique," Albert said, "you must first understand the sword itself."
Leaun straightened. "Yes, sir."
"Many rush ahead," Albert continued. "They chase form and flair without building a foundation." He gestured to the blade. "A sword must become familiar—its weight, its balance, its resistance."
Everything he said was true.
What he did not say was simpler.
For a beginner, even ten thousand swings would be excessive.
A hundred thousand was cruelty.
The number was never meant to teach efficiency. It was meant to teach hardship. To show the boy how unforgiving the path truly was.
And, if possible—to make him quit.
"So today," Albert said evenly, "you will begin with the most basic exercise."
Leaun's grip tightened.
"Swing your sword."
Albert met his eyes.
"One hundred thousand times."
The words fell like stone.
Albert turned away, certain no child without talent—or obsession—could endure such excess.
Leaun bowed deeply.
"I understand," he said sincerely.
And he began.
One swing.
Then another.
And another.
Albert directed the other trainees to spar, fully expecting Leaun to collapse before the hour was done. From time to time, he glanced back—waiting.
Leaun did not stop.
His arms trembled. His palms blistered. Sweat soaked his clothes. Still, the sword rose and fell—slow, uneven, unwavering.
Hours passed.
Albert's frown deepened.
He should have quit by now.
The wooden blade cut through the air again. And again.
When training finally ended, Leaun remained standing.
His arms shook violently. His fingers were numb around the hilt. Sweat blurred his vision, yet the sword did not fall.
Albert stared.
"Dismissed," he said sharply.
Only then did Leaun drop to one knee. The wooden blade slipped from his grasp and struck the ground. Even so, he bowed deeply, breath coming in shallow pulls.
Albert exhaled through his nose.
Later—much later—it dawned on him.
The boy had not been counting.
Not because of discipline.
Because he could not.
The realization tightened something ugly in his chest.
Illiterate. Talentless. Enduring only because he lacked the sense to stop.
Albert scoffed quietly.
"So this is what passed for promise," he muttered.
His gaze flicked, unbidden, to the balcony.
Empty.
Of course the Patriarch had already lost interest.
Albert turned away, jaw tight.
Let the boy swing until his arms failed. Let the illusion shatter on its own.
If the Patriarch wished to waste his time on street refuse, then so be it.
While Leaun was still on the ground, another presence drew near.
Leaun barely registered them until a shadow fell across his vision. A waterskin appeared in front of him.
"Hey," Kleon said quietly. "Drink."
Leaun hesitated, then accepted it with both hands. The water was cool—shockingly so. He drank slowly at first, then greedily, until the tightness in his chest eased.
Kleon sat down beside him without hesitation, legs stretched out, as if the training yard were his own room.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Leaun asked, voice rough, "Kleon… what is the way of the sword to you?"
Kleon blinked, surprised by the question. He thought for a moment, eyes drifting toward the practice yard.
"My father says it's about protection," he said. "Albert says it's discipline." He shrugged. "I think… it's about understanding yourself. Knowing when to move. When not to."
Leaun nodded, absorbing the words carefully, as if committing them to memory.
Kleon glanced at him, then frowned slightly.
"They were laughing," he said. "The others. About you."
Leaun's hands tightened briefly around the waterskin.
He did not look up.
Instead, he smiled.
It was small. Private.
"I don't mind," Leaun said softly.
Kleon frowned. "You should."
Leaun shook his head.
Compared to the street—the hunger, the cold, the hands that struck without warning—this was nothing.
Words could not starve you. Laughter did not leave scars.
"They're light," Leaun thought quietly.
And for the first time since arriving, he realized something strange.
Here, even cruelty had limits.
The routine did not change.
Every morning, while others trained technique and form, Leaun stood alone.
"One hundred thousand times."
"Yes, sir."
Days passed. Weeks followed.
Raphael appeared from time to time—beneath the shade, upon the balcony, always watching. Never staying long. Never speaking.
Enough to make Albert hesitate. Enough to make doubt itch at the edges of his certainty.
Is this talent—or stubborn foolishness?
Am I missing something… or is the Patriarch?
Then, one quiet morning, Albert stopped.
Leaun's swings were still plain. Still unremarkable to the untrained eye.
But there was no hesitation. No wasted motion.
The blade no longer fought him. His breathing flowed with each rise and fall.
Albert stared.
This had not appeared suddenly. It had crept in—buried beneath failure, invisible beneath mockery.
His gaze flicked instinctively to where Raphael usually stood.
So this is what you saw…
For the first time, something unsettling settled in Albert's chest.
Doubt.
Not of Leaun—
but of himself.