Drifting - Erickar Avery

[lum]

After a few more days I started to tell myself I was paranoid. I watched Toghan’s doing every time he didn’t know I was observing him. Or maybe he did know. Hard to tell with this old lad. But it struck me he never explained, not once, what he was doing with his wares.

Eventually however… I noticed a rhythm. Some sort of cycle. He’d touch nearly every piece in the morning, and then again in the late afternoon. Sometimes with the exact same gesture. Other times he’d swap objects or flip a comb over. There was something to it, a logic I still couldn’t read.

I started mentally mapping out the table, trying to remember where each product was and in what position. I tried to memorize the colors, or at least the difference between them. But the layout never stayed still. Even if I remembered a placement, it always felt just off enough to make me doubt I ever had.

I sure as hell didn’t like it. It made my teeth itch to look at it too long.

I gave it another day. Just one more. Watching. Thinking. Pretending to work.

And then I cracked…


It was evening. Toghan had gone to get some water or maybe argue with a supplier again. I was alone in the stall. Dust curled in the sunset light, and the warm air settled like a sleeping beast.

I glanced both ways, then reached for a bead.

Didn’t pick it up — just gave it a nudge. A small shift. Barely half a finger’s worth. Rotated it ever so slightly clockwise. It gleamed faintly at me. Like it knew…

Then I pulled my hand back and waited.

Nothing happened.

Of course not. No flash of light. No hidden trapdoor. No sudden lightning striking from the clouds. Just my own heartbeat, loud in my ears, and the sound of someone laughing hard far down the marketplace.

I turned away and stacked another crate.


About an hour later, Toghan returned.

Said nothing at first. Just eyed the stall. Looked like always. Peaceful. Calm.

But then… he stopped. Stared at the bead, a shade paler maybe. He didn’t touch it at first. Just stood there for a moment too long. Then, quickly, he turned it back to how it was! I couldn’t believe my eyes.

He still didn’t say a word when he passed me, but I could swear he was murmuring something under his breath in his own language.

By the time I turned back to face him, he was adjusting a silk cloth like nothing happened.

I still had no idea what just happened, but that night? I dreamed of patterns I couldn’t solve. Of shifting boards and shadowy hands placing pieces I couldn’t see. And somewhere in the middle of it… I dreamed of Seraphina, smiling like she knew the next move already.


The next morning, something was off before I even got to the stall.

It wasn’t the air, still thick with that pre-market roasting and baking. Wasn’t the noise either, like vendors barking, kids weaving, coin clinking like usual. No, it was the feeling in my gut. The stillness behind the noise. Like a held breath.

And then I saw it.

The stall was there. The crates. The cloths. The goods. Everything laid out, still covered in the protective linen Toghan always threw over at night.

But no Toghan.

Huh?

At first I thought maybe he was late. Or went to grab something — tea, a haggling war with the butcher, or a date! Who knows! But as the minutes passed, and the sun climbed a bit higher, and no humming came floating back to the stall… that itch behind my teeth returned.

Toghan was never late.

Not once he had been.

So I waited. Half an hour. Then a full one. The sun had fully crested, and vendors were in their groove. Still no sign of him. And I didn’t know where to look. During all that time I never bothered to learn where in Baldur’s he was staying. Did he rent a room at some inn? Or did he own a place? All I know he hired some warehouse for his stock, and that was the first place where I looked.

So I started asking around at the market.


“Seen the old man who runs that stall?” I pointed as I asked more than one merchant.

Blank looks. Shrugs.

“The one with the beads, the bone combs—Toghan? Bit quiet. Gray beard. Always humming? Sometimes offering irritating workout advice?”

“Sorry, mate,” said a halfling polishing knives, “I thought that was your stall.”

“What?!”

“You’re the one I’ve seen there. Moving stuff around, rearranging. Loudly.” The halfling snickered.

Fu… I turned around.

Another voice chimed in — an old woman selling silks. “I thought it was a decorating shop. And you were always working.”

That stopped me cold.

“I’m not— I mean I was working for someone.”

They all exchanged looks, that careful merchant politeness, the kind people wear when they think you’re a coin short of a full purse.

“You sure you’re not just messing with us?” the halfling asked, only half-joking now. “You’ve been there for tendays.”

Tendays…

I stumbled back a little. Looked at the stall again. The way the light slid across the cloths, the faint glimmer of the bead I’d nudged the night before still tucked in place.

No signs of a struggle. No sign he’d packed up or run off.

But no Toghan.

And no one had ever really seen him?

It didn’t make sense. Couldn’t. I remembered talking with him, stacking crates beside him, cracking jokes, hearing his weird eastern wisdom. But now…

Now it felt like I’d been speaking to someone non-existing between things.

Like whatever I thought I’d seen?

I stood there for a long time. Just… watching the stall. Like maybe if I stared hard enough, Toghan would materialize out of the shadows like he sometimes did — humming, nodding, reaching for a comb like nothing had happened.

He didn’t.

Instead, the silence pressed in tighter.

And the bead I’d touched — that one damn bead — looked a little too bright under the sun. Paler. As if I had changed something, and it was waiting for me to notice what.

I didn’t touch it again.

Not that day.

Not the next.


But by then… people had already started calling me “the stall guy.” Asking questions about prices. Asking if I’d restock the ivory rings. Some even thought I was trying to be mysterious — “like a Calishite merchant tradition,” one bard said.

They’d never known Toghan.

They never could remember him.

And every time I tried to tell them otherwise, it was like I was describing a ghost that only I had seen.

But I remember him.

I do.

At least, I think I do.

[lum]

Five more days passed, and Toghan was still missing. I watched, I listened, I saw after his bloody shop. Five days of people walking by this stall like it was mine.

That’s when I packed it up. Completely. You could say I was quitting my job of sorts. But not without putting everything away, behind locked doors.

The sun had already dipped low when I hauled the last of the crates into the storage place Toghan had rented. Some dusty side room off a back alley, stone-walled and half-forgotten, the kind of place that smells like wood rot and secrets. I set the last crate down, wiped my brow, and muttered under my breath, missing Toghan’s ‘kind’ advice.

But the hairs on my neck had other ideas.

I wasn’t alone.

I felt it before I heard it, movement just beyond the edge of the torchlight, the way the air changed when someone else was switching from one place to another.

Then a voice. Calm. Precise. Yet cold enough to cut glass.

“Where’s Toghan?”

I spun, hand already slipping to the blade at my back. A hooded figure stepped into the half-light. Slim, straight posture. Not tall, but composed. Efficient. I couldn’t place the accent. Too clean maybe, but the tone wasn’t a question. To me it felt like a warning.

“Who’s asking?” I growled, my blade halfway drawn. “He’s nay here. And if ye’ve got something to say, it can go through me.”

One heartbeat.

Then the figure moved.

Fast. Way too fast for my taste.

I blocked the first strike by instinct, the second barely with a startled twist of my shoulder. He wasn’t fighting like thugs I’d face in alleys, or the bravos who made noise before drawing steel. This was silence and precision. Every motion tight and purposeful. A rhythm I simply couldn’t predict.

And I’d trained. The gods knew I’d trained. I wasn’t just some street-brawler. But this lad? He was sharper. Leaner. Like the space around him helped instead of hindered.

I tried to get distance. Used a feint, dropped low, kicked a crate to throw him off guard. It barely slowed him. He came in with a step I didn’t recognize, then pivoted off his back foot like a dancer, blade slicing across my guard. Man!

I parried. Only just barely.

And that’s when I saw it.

The face under the hood.

Kozakuran. I remembered him now. This was the guy who passed the stall once in my first days with Toghan. Looking like just another wandering buyer. Or so I thought. But up close… he was younger than Toghan. Not young, but younger. Hair bound. Eyes focused. Familiar in a way that made my stomach drop.

Time for some dirty moves.

I managed to twist behind him, drew my knife with a snap, and slipped in close.

My blade kissed his ribs.

One heartbeat more and I’d…

“Stop!”

Another voice cut through the room like a bell.

Still. Calm. Like always. I knew that one.

Toghan.

I turned, stunned, and there he was. Standing just inside the entrance to the storage room. No noise, no drama. Just there, as if he’d never been away.

The other Kozakuran didn’t move. Not a breath.

“Erickar,” Toghan said softly, stepping forward, “Please. Put knife down.”

I didn’t move. My hand was shaking.

“Put it away. That’s my son.”

Silence again.

I let the blade drop.

And then I said the only thing I could come up with.

“Toghan? Seriously?”

[lum]

My knife had hit the floor with a flat clatter, my fingers still twitching like they hadn’t agreed yet to let go. Toghan gave me a small nod, calm as ever. The man he claimed was his son stepped back, barely, no tension lost in his shoulders. And me? I was just about to speak, just about to let loose a hundred questions building up behind my teeth… just when the door creaked again.

Not quiet this time. Not stealthy. Oh no.

Heavy boots. Ten pairs, maybe more. I turned toward the sound, already knowing whatever this was, it wasn’t good news.

They filled the room like a disease in half-circle formation. And by they I meant grimy faces, drawn blades and mean grins plastered over worse teeth. One of them stepped forward, not the biggest, but the one who wore smug like armor.

“Well,” he said, dragging the words like he owned them. “Didn’t think it’d be this easy.”

Toghan didn’t blink. His son didn’t move.

I exhaled as silent as possible.

The man pointed at Toghan and his son with his chin, then looked straight at me. “Them first,” he said to his crew. “Take the old man, kill his son. And... whoever that guy is, him too.”

That guy. That’d be me.

I counted quickly. Ten of them. Cramped space. My long blade was a joke here. Zero room to swing. My knife? Still on the floor between me and Mr. Deadpan Junior. Not the greatest odds.

And no time to think as the leader gave the signal.

They rushed.

One advantage? The cramped space counted for them as well, and it be impossible to jump on each of us with three or four at once.

I kicked a crate into the first guy’s shins, scrambled back, got a hand on my scabbard, but it was already too late for finesse. A blade came down, missed my shoulder by inches. Then I rammed my elbow into someone’s gut, caught a fist across my jaw in return. Blood in my mouth.

Then, everything exploded.

Toghan moved.

Gods, I didn’t know he could move like that. Not a single wasted step. A sharp pivot, elbow up, fist down, and someone hit the wall with a grunt and a crack. His son was worse. Cleaner. Meaner. I caught him mid-motion, spinning, flipping one of them over his shoulder with terrifying elegance. As if gravity didn’t exist. And he barely looked like he was trying!

Meanwhile, I wasn’t winning. I was surviving. I grabbed at someone’s wrist, ducking under a swing, using the wall to slam my boot into a guy’s leg just to stay upright. And I sure as hell was making way more noise than the other two!

“Little help!” I barked, as I narrowly dodged a thrust meant for my ribs.

Toghan answered. “Small rock holds back great wave. Low aim no crime.”

I rolled my eyes. More advice. Of course.

His son though flicked a glance my way. Judged my situation. And then, with smooth economy, he swept a guy off his feet while kicking my knife toward me.

I caught it, reversed the grip, and drove it from low under a man’s ribs.

Back in the game.

Only, it seemed over. The last steel clattered to the ground, a final groan, and then silence.

Toghan and his son were standing like the storm never touched them. Me? I was bending over, catching my breath, bleeding just a little bit and a bruise swelling under my eye.

“Glad I could help…” I muttered under my breath.

Ten bodies were down. I tried to stand up straight again. Great, like I’d just run from the Nine Hells. My ribs hurt as well. I motioned. “So, anyone wanna explain why I just signed up to be stabbed next to hauling crates?”

Toghan shook his head. “Not now. We go. Now.”

We moved out of the city through the sewers. That was my advice. After that Toghan had the lead.


The forest swallowed us whole.

Branches clawed past my shoulders as we moved, the air turning colder, quieter, like even the trees knew not to speak around Toghan. I was limping, but only slightly. Enough to feel sorry for myself. Not enough to warrant his steady glance back every few minutes.

Eventually, we broke through a thicket and there it was. An older looking house tucked into the roots of the earth like it had grown there. Curved rooflines, paper-paneled doors, a splash of red in the lantern hanging by the entrance.

It didn’t look like it belonged here. Which meant it probably did.

Toghan slid the door open like he’d never left it. His son followed, silent as always. I hesitated. One foot on the threshold, the other still in the dark.

Inside, the house smelled of cedar and ink. Clean lines. Empty space. A kind of order I couldn’t begin to understand. No clutter, no furniture I recognized, just low tables, cushions, a single kettle sitting on coals. It felt more like a memory than a home. Was this place even real?

“Sit,” Toghan said, motioning to one of the cushions near the hearth.

I sat. Or collapsed. Hard to tell.

He disappeared behind one of the sliding doors and came back with a small lacquered box. Opened it with care. Inside: cloth, a few glass vials, things that looked suspiciously like tools from a torture kit. His hands didn’t tremble once.

“I’ve had worse,” I said, as he knelt beside me.

“No doubt,” he replied, dabbing something sharp-smelling across the split on my cheekbone.

It stung. I hissed.

His son hovered in the background like a ghost pretending to be furniture. Just watching me. Like he still hadn’t decided if I was a threat. Or maybe… wondering how it was possible I was still alive.

“Your ribs?” Toghan asked.

“Sore.”

He pressed lightly on my side. I didn’t scream. But I wanted to.

“Bruised. Not broken.”

“Well, that a relief. Got worried for a sec.”

Toghan allowed the smallest tilt of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like an acknowledgment that humor had been attempted.

Then, silence.

Just the sound of the kettle bubbling and the wind playing through the slats in the wall.

“This yer place?” I asked finally. “Didn’t take ya for the paper-walls-and-serenity type.”

He didn’t look up. “Many things appear not as they are.”

“Wh… eh… sure. But you can admit it. You’ve got good taste. Fancy place.”

Still nothing.

I sighed and leaned back against the wall, wincing a little.

“So... now what?”

Toghan glanced at me. “Now, nothing. Rest.”

[lum]

The room was warm from the hearth. Or maybe I was running a fever of sorts. I really don’t remember falling asleep, just that one minute I was listening to the kettle and windpipes outside, and the next shadows had fallen over me, covering me in a blanket of silence in a way only a deep forest knows.

I woke to voices, and as I shifted my ribs still ached. I strained my ears, but the voices were low, controlled. Like they didn’t want to wake me.

I crawled slightly away from the pile of pillows toward the sound. Then I heard it were those two. Toghan’s, calm and clipped as ever. The son’s, sharper. Colder, but not loud.

“… and he’s unpredictable,” the son said. “Unrefined.”

A pause. Wind brushed the house, whispering against the paper walls.

“You saw him fight,” Toghan answered. “He not unskilled.”

“That’s not what I said.” Another pause. “He’s… it’s in his stance. It’s in how he… he displays anger in his blade. Like it owes him something. Blood maybe.”

I kept my breathing slow. Even. Tried not to shift anymore. A trickle of cold clung to the floor where I lay. My eyes stayed shut, but the words filtered in easy.

“Rage… that’s it. He is rage. A blade swinging on anger,” the son continued. “Rage leads to mistakes. He’ll get himself killed. Or us.”

Toghan didn’t respond right away. When he did, it was like someone weighing a coin in their hand. “He still followed.”

“That doesn’t mean he understands.”

“No,” Toghan said. “But he might.”

What were they talking about?

Another silence.

I could practically feel the son’s disapproval through the wall. Not loud. But heavy. “I don’t trust him.”

That was the last of it. Or at least the last I caught. Footsteps shifted. A door slid. Wind pressed a little stronger through the trees.

I let the quiet stretch for a while before finally letting my eyes open. Slowly I got up and moved to that other space.

The fire was low now, coals giving off the soft kind of light that makes shadows bigger than they are. The lacquered box was gone. So was the son. Toghan was still there, sitting with his back to me. Was he… meditating or something?

The words I’d heard spun slow in my mind. Anger in my weapon. That I could believe. But the rest? What was all this?

Why had ten thugs wanted Toghan dead, and when would they tell me why? If at all. Why did his son show up at the market like a ghost out of nowhere? Why had Toghan gone missing for many days? And why did he look at me like I was a part of it all before I even said a word?

Too many questions. Not enough answers.

And worst of all—I had a feeling this was just the start.

I watched Toghan. Perhaps it was best not to bother him. If he were a monk of some kind, he might beat the hells out of me for shaking him up out of whatever meditation this was. So I went back to sleep.


Morning came slow. Gray light filtered in through the paper-like panels. I was already awake, for a while now. Toghan sat cross-legged across some low table when I entered the main room. He didn’t look up when I came in. His hands moved with quiet grace, setting two bowls, pouring hot water into a clay pot. I assumed one for me, so I sat down across from him. Said nothing. The air smelled of steamed rice and pickled ginger. Something earthy in the broth too. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was practiced. Like a sparring match where both fighters knew the other wouldn’t strike first.

He pushed a bowl toward me without a word. I took it.

We ate. Simple as that.

The sound of chewing, the slight clink of chopsticks on wood, the subtle slurp of broth… it was all there was for a while. In the current context irritating like hell. And I could’ve sworn I almost heard the trees outside breathing.

Finally, I broke. “So,” I said, not looking up. “You and your son always talk about your guests like they’re not around?”

He didn’t answer right away. I risked a glance. Man! His expression hadn’t even changed! Calm. Unreadable.

Then: “You weren’t asleep.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No,” I said.

More annoying silence.

He poured us both tea. I never drank tea in my life. The steam curled between us like a spirit. I stared at it too long.

“You were listening,” he said. Still not looking at me.

“Not on purpose.”

He gave the faintest nod. Not agreement, just acknowledgment. Like dropping a stone into a pond and watching the ripples. Measured. Unhurried.

Grrrr. I set my bowl down. “Is there a reason I’m still here?”

That finally made him glance at me. Brief, but enough.

“Yes.”

A pause. Just that word. I waited, but nothing more came.

I huffed, leaned back a little. “You gonna let me in on it?”

Toghan took a sip of his tea.

Then, finally: “Eventually.”

So that was it then.

We went back to eating.

[lum]

But that morning dragged.

Toghan busied himself with the quiet kind of work that didn’t need me. Tending to the hearth. Checking shutters. Waxing some wood. Scraping ink into a pot and writing slow, deliberate vertical lines of symbols I couldn’t read.

After a while the stillness got to me. I had to do something. Some kind of action.

So I found the back door half-slid open and took it as permission enough to leave the strange place. The air outside was crisp, the smell of damp wood and moss thicker now that the sun had climbed a little higher.

Behind the house was a clearing. It wasn’t big, but shaped like it was meant for movement. Flattened earth, a few worn posts, and some simple rack stacked with old wooden poles and something that made me think of practice blades. There were a few footprints too, half-faded from nightly rain.

Whatever it was, to me it now was a space made for sweating, for bruising knuckles, for forgetting things…

Seraphina…


I stretched a little, feeling every pull and ache from the day before. My ribs barked protest at first, but after a few minutes, the stiffness began to loosen, fading into a sort of background feeling. I worked through some simple motions, granted… half-hearted. Really, just enough to pretend I was doing something. But it didn’t take long before the repetition felt hollow.

The energy inside me didn’t want calm. It wanted noise. Sparks.

Rage… was it that rage Toghan’s son meant?

The hell with it. I grabbed my sword, found myself a nice chunk of old wood from a stack by the fence, and started cutting. Big, sloppy swings at first, then more refined as the rhythm found me.

The blade sang through the air. Clean splits. Sharp cracks. Chips flying. The thrum of it worked better than any meditation.

But no matter how fast I moved, or how many pieces I carved down to nothing, the thoughts still came. Memories surfaced like bodies from a frozen river.

Seraphina’s laugh, bitter and bright in that last dream. The way how her hand had lingered too long on a guy. The final, silent look she gave me… one I hadn't understood until it was too late.

I cut harder.

Didn’t even hear the footsteps at first.

“Did the wood hurt you somehow?” A voice asked me just when the blade stuck a little deeper into a knot. I yanked it free and glanced up. Aye, no ghost this time. There he was.

The son.

Standing at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Watching me like someone might watch a wolf chew its own leg out of a trap.

I didn’t respond. In fact, neither of us spoke.

The silence stretched, same as it always seemed to do here.

Only this time, it wasn't practiced. It was loaded.

He stepped closer to me, slow, perhaps the way someone might approach a tethered animal they not entirely trust.

“You’re wasting motion. Bleeding strength into… what… nothing?”

That got under my skin right away. I felt it, a heat rising behind ribs still sore from yesterday. “What? Seriously, you too? I’ll do what I damn well please.” I spat. Then I wiped the blade clean on a patch of grass and set another log upright.

I sensed his eyes on me before he said, “You don't even know what you're fighting, do you?"

That drew a glare from me. “Done preaching yet, -boy-?” Yeah, I sure as hell was older than him. Had to be.

The son’s smile was barely there, he was not amused with this.

Good.

“If I were preaching, you’d already be on your knees.”

My jaw dropped slightly at that answer. This clearing suddenly felt smaller too. And did that late morning sun just turned sharper? Like knives glinting through mist.

“If you can actually shape the wood, not just destroy it, you might be worth my time.” He said before offering a short bow, half formal, half mocking. and turned to leave.

He vanished between the vegetation, light and effortless.

And left me there, staring at the wreckage like it was more than just broken wood.


I don’t know how long I stood there. Long enough for the edge to dull. Long enough for the ache in my ribs to catch up with the rest of me.

The sun had moved meanwhile, the light shifted, when I overheard footsteps once more. Deliberate, not threatening, emerging from the house.

Toghan.

He made no secret of his steps, his presence didn’t demand attention. He 'simply arrived'. I turned, wiping sweat from my forehead. He said nothing at first. Just took it all in… the battered poles, the cut stumps, and most likely the raw look on my face.

“Nice swing, deep cut.”

I grunted. Was he praising me or something? Or merely observing?

Toghan came closer, stopping a little ways off. Not crowding me. Not testing me.

"You know," he said, "most who train here learn trust ground under feet first."

I stared at him, completely not understanding.

He smiled, slow and faint. “Ground steady, forgiving. You fall, you can stand. You fall again, you stand again. It patient with mistakes."

He tapped his staff lightly against the earth. "But water..." He let the word hang, like he wanted it to sink in.

"Water not patient. It moves whether you ready or not. Fight it, it drag you under.” He paused as he looked at me.”Fear it… and you stay to shore forever."

He met my eyes then. And it wasn’t pity I saw… thank the gods for that. But it was something heavier.

Understanding.

“Fear of water, Erickar. Not because you weak, but because like sailor you are you know what it means to be swept away. And left alone.”

Toghan then only smiled at me. Like a real genuine smile.

“Swing sword as much as you need. But someday, you have to step in current again. And find you not alone as you thought."

He left me there, and not just with a pile of wood. I broke. Tears came. Tears for everything I'd been too stubborn to name.

[lum]

The next day I woke feeling sore, not just physically. I felt emptier, but in a way also lighter. After another quiet breakfast with Toghan, he led me outside the house and into the forest.

I… don’t know why he brought me there.

The woods had opened in a low bank, just where the stream ran broad and slow. Mist hung over the river like it hadn’t made peace yet with the early morning light.

Toghan moved into the water and motioned to a large flat stone and waited till I sat on it.

“Today…” he began lifting a single finger,”... do nothing. Not fix anything. Just be.”

I frowned at those to me cryptic words. But I waited, showed patience. He said nothing anymore. At first the vocal silence was like a pressure behind my eyes. So my mind started clawing at the surrounding sounds, considering those as noise. Water moved beside me. A dragonfly hovered. Somewhere behind us, a bird called out and was answered.

And in all that stillness, a thought surfaced. Not like a thunderclap, but like breath warming cold hands.

I’m still here. Alive. In good health.

Strange. Why did that came to mind?

I sat a moment with that thought. Considered it. Perhaps because my whole life has been a dangerous one? Because I’ve been lucky more than once? So I didn’t push it away. Nor did I attempt to pull it closer. Just… letting it be there.

This… small, simple truth. I’m still here.

My hand brushed the stone beneath me, it felt cool and slick with morning dew. The river’s sound was almost like a voice, low, constant, wrapping around the moment like a lullaby without words. And suddenly I realized I hadn’t thought of her in the last few minutes. Not once.

No guilt. No bitterness. Just… open space.

I closed my eyes, and for the first time in what felt like seasons, there was no pull. No weight dragging me down.

I could still sense the cracks. Of course. Scars perhaps. The ghost of pain like when losing a limb. But it was like this was all part of me now. And instead of tearing me apart, just… there.

I heard Toghan move, the water shifting around his legs. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

We moved back to his place, while I still didn’t fully realize this was the start of something. That didn’t matter. Somehow this moment had been enough for me. In a positive way.


A few days passed. The air turned slightly warmer in the mornings, and the mist clung to the earth a little shorter each dawn.

Toghan still took me out of the house every time, but today he started showing me movements. Strange movements, slow albeit deliberate. Like wind flowing gently through high sails, playful almost.

“No thinking. Just be.”

This first time, I had to admit I felt foolish. My arms moved awkwardly, my balance a bit off. But Toghan said nothing. He only moved beside me, silent and steady.

The motions were simple. A turn of a wrist. A shift of weight. Breathing pairing with steps. After a few they started to string together like… like music. I didn’t know what to think of it so eventually I stopped trying to make sense of it.

And exactly that’s when something shifted.

That stillness I had found days earlier… it was still with me. But this was different. Moving without thinking, without judgment, it was like letting water carry me. The patterns lulled my thoughts. And my body softened, relaxed.

It had to do something with what Toghan was showing me. I didn’t recognize the style. I don’t even know if it was a style. Toghan never named it. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be anything more than what it was: movement for its own sake. Something to… to…?

One morning, as we finished, I looked over at him.

“The store, the items at the market. It’s a message board.” I blurted.

He arched a brow. Surprise? First time I see that expression on his face.

“And this… you were a warrior.”

Toghan’s gaze drifted toward the treetops, where the light was breaking through in scattered gold.

He didn’t answer although he nodded once. I wasn’t sure how to understand that but for now once more it was enough for me.


One evening I noticed fresh boot tracks near the doorway, smaller than Toghan’s. The kind left by someone who knew where to step so as not to be noticed.

I didn’t ask him about it.

But that very same night, just before twilight completely fell, I stepped out behind the house to breathe the cooler air. The clearing there sloped slightly downward, into thickets and shadows. And for some reason I descended into the forest. Not far.

That’s when I heard them. Toghan and his son.

I noticed their voices were low, but not hushed. I figured they weren’t hiding. Just… speaking out of sight.

“... and he figured out the shop?” That was the son, calmer than I remembered.

“Yes. Understood the purpose. But not able to read.” Toghan, sounding quite thoughtful.

A silence stretched, then Toghan again: “Still. Almost none get that far.”

There was something like agreement in the way the son exhaled. I couldn’t see them, only make out the edges of their words. I leaned against a tree, not eavesdropping so much as listening for an anchor in all this.

“So, what do you think, father?”

Toghan replied slowly, like weighing each word: “Not broken. And more rare than what most would think.”

A pause.

“But you think he’s… receptive?”

Another pause, and then Toghan said, “Depends.”

Right... up to here for me.

I walked back to the clearing and stepped inside the house, unsure if they’d known I’d heard. Unsure if it mattered.


The next morning, nothing was said. The same routine... calm, measured, silent. But the son sat at the table now. He didn’t speak to me directly, but neither did he scowl. Somehow it felt like… what, progress?

Somewhere in the quiet between us, I started to understand something : I wasn’t just recovering here. I think I was being… ‘considered’.

Why, or for what, I still didn’t know.

But whatever it was… it felt closer now.

Like something breathing just beyond the veil, waiting to be discovered.

[lum]

One evening Toghan broke the silence in a way that caught me off guard.

“What you want do, Erickar?”

I blinked at him across the table. “Huh? What? Do?”

He nodded, setting down his bowl. “With life. What you want it be?”

I didn’t answer right away. The question was so simple; and at the same time felt too large. Like trying to name a color I’d never seen in my life before.

“Nay know,” I said eventually. “I guess… I just wanna be like all folks.”

Toghan didn’t press. He didn’t ask what I meant. Just looked at me for a long moment, then asked me, “What stop you from being like everyone?”

I almost said… everything. Instead I looked down at my hands, tracing a scar across one knuckle.

“There be a part of me,” I murmured, “not like other people. A dark side. Always been there. Nay think it ever leaves.”

Toghan sipped his tea. Then, quietly: “So use it.”

I looked up. “Eh?!?”

He met my gaze, calm and steady. “Use dark side for good. Can be strength, help with purpose.”

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Because what do you say to that?

No one had ever said that to me before.

Toghan offered a faint smile. “Tell me about past where you think dark side ruled.”

I didn’t answer right away.

It was like he’d asked me to point at a storm and explain which gust of wind was the worst. And why.

Still, after a bit, I found my voice.

“I was a pirate once,” I started.

Toghan didn’t blink. Just waited.

“Some crew took me in, years ago. Nay long after I ran from… from… well, from too much. They had a ship, flew no banners, answered to none. Just a name between’em. I was younger, angry, rebellious. And they nay cared.”

I swallowed. My fingers curled a bit.

“I liked it. Valkur help me, I liked it. The sea, that freedom. But most of all…,” I gazed up at Toghan, ”…I belonged. We were brothers an’ sisters, bound nay by blood but… by the same wounds, the same experiences, same feelings. The world had given up on us, so we gave back.”

I shook my head. Then rose a weak fist.

“Raided merchant vessels. Hit the fat ones, always the fat ones. The ones flying gold leaf on their sails, hauling raw materials and silks while folk starved for those all over the lands. We killed if forced. Took what we needed. Gave some to places where coin barely flowed among commoners. And sometimes… we freed the ones in the holds.”

My gaze drifted off into a distance.

“There be this one ship once,” I said, my voice low, like the memory itself might hear me. “Big merchant cutter, with flags out of Luskan, fast and smug. Seen the ship more than once deep in the water sailing from Chult. We boarded her just past dawn, thinking she’d be full of stolen spices or fabric. But the hold was packed with people. Chained. Barely clothed. Couldn’t speak a word we understood, but the fear in their eyes was the same like in any tongue.”

I paused briefly.

“Captain just stared at them a long while. Then he turned and told us: break every chain. We did. No coin taken, no cargo lifted. Just the chains. Some of the freed leapt into the sea. Never to surface. Others stayed, shaking, crying. Some came back with us, took up rope and sail and nay ever left. One of them, a lass nay older than eighteen, used to hum while she climbed the rigging. Same damn tune every time. I never asked what it meant. Think I was afraid to know. But I remember thinking, watching her laugh in the sun a week later… felt all right what we did. The crew grew after that. A crew of all sorts of slaves. Former slaves. Some of us kept wearing bits of broken chains. As an reminder.”


A breath escaped me. “Still. I was a pirate. Taking what nay was mine. Running from law.”

Toghan studied me for a long moment.

“Or,” he said, “... you were a free man who fought thieves in fine clothes and captains who sold lives.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said nothing.

He leaned back.

“Maybe dark side… merely need direction.” he eventually said.

[lum]

“So…,” Toghan leaned back eyeing me,” What made you happy, back then?”

I huffed a breath through my nose, slow like smoke, then glanced at him sideways.

A grin tugged at my mouth, impish, nearly boyish, like it had waited years to show itself again.

“Ah, uhh… ” I said, leaning back as well, “...ye mean aside from the righteous chain-breaking and bloody justice?”

Toghan raised a brow, unbothered.

I laughed. “The lot of it, really. We lived hard, aye, but man, did we live. I was young, bit of wild, stupid, full of piss and fire. There were lasses,... lasses, lots of 'em… more than a lad had sense for. And strong drink that burned all the way down. There was singing, by all the gods, the singing! From deck to crow’s nest, drunk off our arses and still kept better rhythm than half the taverns ashore.”

I paused, lost a moment in the flicker of memory.

“Danced, too. Most of the time without knowing the steps. Just stomping, spinning, clapping hands, like fools under the stars. Slept till noon some days, when the sea let us. Told stories till dawn when it didn’t.”

My grin softened as my voice did.

“Best part? Was all of it together. The crew. We were like a pack of dogs none wanted, yet we made a kind of joy out there, loud and messy and ours. No perfect folk, no, but we’d bleed for each other. Laugh, too. Nay had that before. Not really.”

I looked at Toghan, the grin fading into something quieter.

“For a time, I was happy. Reckon that’s the truth of it.”


Toghan’s voice came softer now, as if careful not to disturb the warmth that had just sparked in me.

“So what happened?” he asked. “What changed?”

My grin faltered. Just a twitch at first, then it folded, slow, like an eager sail losing wind.

I looked down at the table. Took a breath. Let it sit before I continued.

“My captain died,” I said, voice low. “Got murdered. In a brothel, of all places. Fool place to die. Fool way.”

I lifted my eyes, but they weren’t seeing the room anymore.

“We were docked in… in… nay matters. Crew split for the night. Captain took me along for some fun. I stayed at another room, if I remember it right. We went out like always, boots polished, shirt open, gold rings in our ears, like we ruled the damn place.” I paused, jaw tight. “He liked life. Liked people. Could charm coin outta stone, that man. Had a laugh like thunder and a spine made of stormwood.”

My fingers drummed once, then stopped.

“Assassins got’im. Neck slit. Pants down. Still smiling.”

The words hung there, sour in the air.

I blinked slow. “They stripped him to make it look like a robbery. No coin left on him. No rings. No boots. No pride.”

“But I knew better. Heard a sort of fight. Caught them nearly...”

Silence grew thick between us.

“After that,” I said, quieter still, “...things went south fast. Since I found the Cap like that, and all witnesses were murdered, I was the suspect. Some of the crew reckoned I made a move. Thought I wanted the wheel for myself. I was popular, too popular maybe. Close to the Cap. Too close for comfort to some.”

Toghan seemed more intrigued now, leaning in just a touch.

“How you manage get out?” he wondered.

I let out a short breath, the kind that held both pride and poison.

“I convinced ’em the captain hadn’t just been robbed, that he’d been murdered for a reason. Told the crew I’d find out who did it. And several of the crew believed me… or wanted to.”

I paused, let the memory settle.

“Through some gods-cursed coincidence plus a good portion of luck, I caught wind of an assassin group operating in the area. So I did the only thing that made sense.”

He looked at me, steady. Curious.

“I set myself to join them.”

Toghan’s eyes narrowed, then widened. “So, that how you got…”

“The ‘talent’? The rage?” I gave a small nod.” Aye… guess I picked it up all there.”

[lum]

One day, while tending to the garden of these folk, it struck me all of a sudden. I glanced at Toghan.

“Why am I here?” I asked.

He merely smiled and bounced the question right back. “Why are you still here?”

“I… I dunno. Just popped into my head. I mean—I recovered from that little brawl already… several days ago.”

Toghan nodded. “And yet here you are.”

He said it plain, neutral. But somehow, I felt stupid all at once. Maybe they hadn’t dared to ask me to leave. Maybe they’d been waiting.

I scratched the back of my neck. “I’ll, eh… methinks I’ll pack in the afternoon. Be gone by eve.”

Toghan didn’t say a word when I told him. Just gave one of those small nods of his.

So I packed that very same day. Quietly. No fuss. Just slinging what little I had over my shoulder and straightening the straps. I figured I’d slip out the back, spare everyone the need for goodbyes.

Didn’t make it far.

Toghan’s son stood by the gate. Arms crossed, chin up like he was daring me to pass. Still had dirt on his boots from whatever walk he had returned.

“You’re just leaving, then?” he said.

I stopped. “Aye. Told Toghan I would.”

He frowned. “I heard you said a lot of things. Told stories. Making my father almost laugh. Oh, and you fixed the hinge on the shed door, and spooked that damned rooster off the roof.”

I huffed a half-laugh through my nose. “Didn’t mean to stay, lad.”

“Well, and yet you did.”

Silence stretched. Wind tugged the trees behind the house. Somewhere a goat bleated like it had an opinion.

I sighed. “Look… nay am meant for this. I be the kind that roams.”

His jaw set, something stormy behind his eyes. “Maybe not. But you were here. And you were like it mattered. So if you're gonna go, then go like it matters. Say goodbye. Say something.”

That hit harder than it should have. The lad was what—twenty? Twenty two? Voice still cracking. And still, he stood like a man who’d decided the world needed to hear him.

I scratched my beard, awkward. “You’re a sharp fella. Your da should be proud.”

“He is,” he said. “But he was proud of another, too.”

I froze.

And for a long moment, I didn’t know what to say.

“Nay even know ya name.” I eventually said.

“You never asked.” He cast back at me.

“Eh… rite. So?”

“So what?” He wondered.

“So what’s ya bloody name then, since ya so eager to share it.”

He snorted and then nodded once. “Very well. It’s Akari.”

“Akari?”

He rolled his eyes. “Not good enough for you? Should I take another name?”

I laughed and shook my head. Then I reached out for a handshake. But when he wanted to accept my hand, I instead grabbed his arm close to the elbow. “That’s how we do it.”

He blinked at the grab, then smirked. “Right. That is the pirate’s goodbye, eh?”

“Aye, something like that,” I said semi muttering, giving his arm a firm shake before letting go. “None of that limp-fish pawing anyways.”

He smirked. “Thought you'd vanish like a ghost. Didn’t think I’d catch you.”

“Ye nearly didn’t.” I gave the gate a glance. “Was halfway gone in my head.”

Akari nodded slowly, like he understood. Then he asked, “Are you going to find whatever it is you're looking for?”

I scratched at the back of my neck again. “Don’t even know what that is, truth be told.”

He shrugged. “It’s still worth looking, maybe.”

I looked at him properly then. Not the young fellow at the gate. The man behind the eyes. I gave a grunt of agreement.

“Although you are probably even braver than you believe, stronger than you appear and maybe even smarter than you think… but if you ever need us…”

I blinked but nodded. “I’ll remember it,” I replied. “Akari.”

He waved without looking back, and I walked through the gate.

What I didn’t know was that Toghan joined his son the very moment after I walked, watching me leave with a pensive gaze.


The trees closed around me as I left the strange house behind.

No path, not really—just a suggestion of one, half-swallowed by undergrowth and years of neglect. I didn’t much care. My boots started to learn the rhythm of walking, and the forest welcomed no questions.

But then I walked for hours, maybe more. The sun played tricks with the canopy, dappled some gold here, some long shadows there. Birds shouted warnings I didn’t understand. Roots snagged my feet like they had opinions about my direction.

By the time I stopped, I realized I’d gone in a slow, stupid circle. That same crooked birch with the forked trunk. I’d passed it twice now.

I cursed under my breath and rubbed my temples. “Brilliant, just brilliant.”

Then I saw it—half-covered in moss and time: a squat, flat stone etched with old caravan markings. Barely visible now, but I knew it. Had once pissed on it drunk, long ago, laughing with a lass I no longer could name.

I stepped closer. Scratched the moss away.

“Aye,” I muttered. “That be the old road marker. Right path then's west of here.”

I turned, adjusted the weight on my shoulder, and pushed through the brush.

Not long after, the trees gave way to the beaten track with ruts of wagon wheels, familiar as scars. I squinted into the setting light.

Far off, a hint of smoke curled up into the sky. Warm, gentle. Hearthfire.

The Friendly Arm Inn wasn’t far now.

[lum]

The common room at the Friendly Arm was as warm and noisy as I remembered. Stone walls holding in hearth heat, low chatter mixing with the scrape of plates and tankards. A bard picked a slow tune in the corner, fingers dancing over strings like he was coaxing old ghosts. It also reminded me of how a quest was always better when accompanied by a musical ‘arrangement’.

I stuck to the side as I crossed to the bar. Old habit. Ordered simple: stew, bread, and a room for the night. The innkeep handed me a key without fuss. Seemed no one paid me much mind, save one perhaps.

A man at a table near the stage. Half his face hidden by a tankard, the other behind a fall of dark hair. His eyes met mine, just for a breath. Too brief for a true look, but enough for me to notice. Curious, but not aggressive.

Hm. I didn’t know him. And he already seemed engrossed by his tankard again.

So I gave it no more thought.

I ate in silence, then slipped upstairs to the room they gave me. Which was clean enough. Single bed, wooden chest, pitcher of water. No bells or frills. Just what I needed.

I set my pack down and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my temples. Long walk. Too much thinking. Not enough sleep. Weird almost to be on my own again.

The sun had dipped, and the room had gone quiet, just the creak of the inn settling and a distant laugh or two from downstairs. I pulled off my boots, loosened my belt, and stretched out.

Damn. This mattress had no right being that soft.

Didn’t even make it under the blanket.

Didn’t mean to sleep. At least, not right away.

But I must’ve dozed off.

Because the knock came like thunder.

Three firm raps. Not loud, but decided.

I was on my feet before I was fully awake. Hand near the blade I kept tucked behind the chest. Another habit.

I waited. Didn’t breathe.

Another knock. Slower this time. Almost… polite.

I stepped close. Didn’t open the door, just pressed my knuckles against the wood and called out, low: “Nay believe mi asked for company.”

A voice answered—male, smooth, unfamiliar.

“No. But company’s asking for you.”

That got under my skin.

I unlatched the door and opened it just a crack.

The man from the corner seat stood there. Close now. Hood off, hair tied back, face a little bit too clean to be honest.

And he smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I know who you are,” he said. “Erickar Avery, son of Corwyn. Ex-Sergeant of the Blackteeth. Should I continue?”

My jaw tensed.

He saw it.

“I didn't expect to see you walking free,” he went on, voice still casual. “Still plenty of folk would pay to know where you sleep.”

I didn’t speak. Not yet. Just looked him over.

No weapon drawn, but he had the look of someone who didn’t need one. That calm, weightless confidence that always meant danger.

Then he reached into his coat. Slow.

I reached for the hilt behind me. Slower.

But he just pulled out a folded scrap of parchment.

Held it up.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not here to kill you.”

I raised a brow. “Then what?”

“I’m here to offer you a job.”

I opened the door and let him in. But I was pissed and must have sounded like it. “I thought I paid all mi debts to the Knives.”

“I didn’t claim you didn’t. Like I said, it’s a job offer.”

[lum]

The lad stepped inside like this were a routine job to him. Glanced around once, as if cataloging every bit of gear I owned and every corner, right before he made himself comfortable against the far wall. He didn’t sit. Didn’t take his eyes off me. I knew this type of guys.

I shut the door, slow and quiet.

“Alright,” I said. “Talk.”

He held the parchment out between two fingers. I took it, unfolded it.

Inside: a sketch map of a coastline I didn’t recognize. Some coordinates, and a name written in sharp, clean ink. Verrent’s Hollow. No seal. No signature. But a familiar symbol tucked in the corner: a dagger inside a broken wheel.

I frowned. “This be Blacktongue business.”

“Not anymore,” he said. “Blacktongue’s dead. Or so they whisper.”

I stared at him.

He didn’t flinch. “But some of his loyalists are crawling out of their holes. And someone with your... resume could help put a few of them back to where they came from.”

I folded the parchment again, slower this time. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He tilted his head. “Which one?”

“What’s the Knives’s stake in this?”

He finally gave a real smile. But it wasn’t any better than the fake one.

“We like seeing debts paid. And I like knowing who can still handle a blade.”

Then, softer, he added, “And maybe I’m the only one left who doesn’t want to see you gutted in your sleep. Even… with all your debts paid.”

That sat heavy between us.

“So,” he said, pushing off the wall, “...think it over. You leave for Verrent’s Hollow, I’ll know you’re in. Don’t, and I won’t knock a second time.”

That was a threat. Boy… he dared. I give him that.

He opened the door himself and stepped into the hall. But before he vanished down the stairwell, he turned over his shoulder.

“Oh,” he added. “And Erickar? Bring that fine blade behind the chest. You’ll need it.”

Then he was gone.

…

The road to Verrent’s was long enough. Too long. And long enough for a man to start seeing things. Well, seeing wasn’t the exact wording. It was rather what I wasn’t seeing.

But feeling or at least thinking it’s there.

When I left the Friendly I kept to the brush whenever I could. Yeah, I was stuck to old habits like: stepping light, scanning high ridges, watching the wind in the treetops. Listening for any faint tread of boots behind me.

But nothing came.
No cracked twig.
No glint of a lens.
No breath on the back of my neck.

And -that-, that was wrong.

Because if I was being followed -and I was nearly certain I was- they were good. Too good. I wasn’t picking up a damn thing.

That’s what needled me. Not the fear of pursuit, but the insult that someone might be out there slipping past my notice.

Someone extremely patient.
Someone deliberate.

Once, I doubled back.
Sat for an hour or two in a thicket, barely breathing. Still nothing. No tail.

But the feeling stayed.

Like the silence was artificial.
Like the trees were watching my every move and passing it on to whoever shadowed me.

Unless,... hell.

Maybe I was being freaking paranoid?

I turned my head. Lifted my chin a little. I was no woodsman. Not really. But over the years I’ve developed a hell of a spider sense. It’s what has kept me breathing for so long.

There!
Right there!

That sound…that soft tap.
That whisper threading through the wind.

It wasn’t just random. I heard it before, more than once. Almost like it was repetitive. But it was too faint, too distant.

It also came again. Not very often but multiple times. And the pause between each sound filled me with more dread than the noise itself.

At some point I decided if this was anyone or anything tailing me, they meant me no harm. At least not directly or immediately.

But it worked on me.
Like a psychological noose on my ribs.

Eventually I reached my destination. No interruptions. No confrontations.

Just that lingering question behind me.


The treeline broke open like a yawn, and it revealed why Verrent’s Hollow wasn’t on any map. It was not more than a clutch of weary houses slouched against the hills, their roofs bowed, shutters dangling crooked on rusted hinges.

I slowed my pace.

The place looked deserted. Unkempt.
Not even smoke from chimneys.
No clatter of hooves or chatter of voices.
Just wind brushing dead leaves across the packed earth like dry whispers.

Verrent’s didn’t greet me so much as tolerate my presence.

A few fences leaned half-collapsed. One door hung open just enough to suggest someone left in a hurry. The other doors and windows stayed shut.
Too tightly shut.

As if the whole hamlet held its breath.

I stepped into what had to pass for a lane. My boots crunching grit, and every fiber in the surrounding tweed seemed to flinch at the sound.

Was this what passed for normal here? Or had something gotten here before me?

I cleared my throat and called out, “ ‘ello Verrent’s?”

Nothing answered.
Not even an echo.
Just that feeling again.

Like something wasn’t quite right with the air.

And that’s when I realized: no birds. Not a single chirp. Not since after the trees.

I placed my hand on the hilt at my hip. Stepped forward. Slow and steady. My eyes scanned the windows and the space between houses.

Whatever had been trailing me, I wasn’t convinced I’d shaken it off. Maybe it hadn’t stayed behind in the woods.

Or worse.

Maybe… it got here first.

And it never had stayed behind.

[lum]

Nevertheless, I pushed on with this. Carefully I pushed against a door of one of the poor houses. It groaned open on brittle hinges, the sound too loud in a place this quiet. But I couldn’t help that.

Dust hung in the air, thick enough to catch and collect weak light bleeding through the gaps in the boards. The smell was… stale. Mildew. Old wood. But something else threaded beneath it. Something… coppery.

I frowned before I stepped inside, boots slow across warped floorboards, my eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom.

And then I saw him.

Only… not the man I expected.

Not the lad who had come tapping at my door. Not a local of Verrent’s either.

No.

It was…

He sat there in the darkness like he'd always belonged to it. One leg elegantly crossed over the other, hands resting easily in his lap. Calm. Patient. As if the bastard had been here for hours.

As if this was his house, and I was the trespasser.

My breath caught in my throat.
Not from fear.
But from the weight of what it meant that he was here.

Also… that he had arrived here first.

And at his feet, sprawled in a heap on the floorboards, was the man who’d come to find me back at the inn.

Was he still breathing? Or…?

My gaze flicked back up at Akari.

I didn’t draw my weapon. Not yet. Something about Akari’s posture said I’d be dead before steel cleared leather if I tried.

He tilted his head slightly, just enough for a wry smile to catch the light.

“Erickar,” he said with a nod. “Took you long enough.”

“Akari… what the hell are ya doing here?”

Akari glanced from the body on the floor back at me. “I could ask you the same. But I’m here to offer you a choice.”

“A choice? What choice?”

“A choice you thought you never had, if you even believe in the option of having choices.”

“Ye speak in riddles, Akari, out with’it.”

The man reclined a bit. Gods, how did he always manage to look so damn relaxed?

“Just to be clear. This is my father’s idea. Not mine. But I’m here to offer you the choice to become something else.”

I blinked. “Something else? Something else than what?”

He leaned forward, eyes sharp. Focused.

“Something other than a Knife. Other than a cold-blooded killer.”

“I’m not a - !”

Akari lifted a hand, cutting me off with that same maddening grace.

“That’s what I believe. But not my father.”

I glanced back at the lad on the floor and motioned. “Is he…”

“I’m not an assassin, Erickar. No, he’s just unconscious. For now.”

I didn’t see any signs of a fight, nor any blood.

“Ye drugged him. What was it, gas?”

Akari snorted like I'd just insulted him. “Needle.”

Of course. Should have guessed he’d be more refined. And just as damn efficient as Toghan.

“Rite. What’s the plan. And more important. What’s the catch?”

Akari studied me for a moment, then rose to his feet in one smooth motion. Bloody enigmatic elegance. He moved like smoke, no sound, no weight, no hurry.

“You’ve been drifting a while, Erickar,” he said, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. “Working jobs for people who’d cut your throat if it saved them a coin. Answering to no one, loyal to nothing. Tell me… how’s that been working out for you?”

I said nothing. Because what was there to say? It was the truth. For the most part.

Akari took a step closer toward me, gesturing vaguely around the broken-down room. “This place, these people, whatever they been dragging you into this time… do you really feel like it matters? I think you know the answer to that.”

“So ya got something better?” I asked, voice low.

“No,” he said. “But I know someone who has. Someone who sees further than the rest of us. And he thinks you could be useful.”

I folded my arms. “Useful how?”

Akari smirked. “That’s not my part to explain. I’m here just to open that door for you. Whether you step through it…” He trailed off and gave a small shrug.

“This someone. Your father.”

He nodded once.

“Ye expect me to work for him?”

“No,” Akari said, and his eyes glinted like steel under frost. “People don’t work for us. He expects you to join us.”

That gave me pause. Join? Not serve. Not obey. Join.

Still, I narrowed my eyes. “Join what, exactly?”

Another smile. Too quiet. Too knowing.

“That’s not the question you should be asking right now.”

“Oh?” I scoffed. “And what is then?”

Akari leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper, like he was letting me in on a secret the world wasn’t meant to hear.

“The question is… do you want to keep being what you are? Or are you ready to become something more?”

[lum]

“Something more ey? Hm… rite. Ye go ahead now. Gimme a moment.”

Akari frowned at my request, eyes flicking between me and the man on the floor. But he didn’t argue. He stepped out.

A few minutes later I joined him.

“Ready now?” He asked.

“Now I be.”

We headed back in northern direction. Don’t ask me how and where we headed. I was familiar with the region in general, but Akari seemed to crave secret paths through woods only he could discern.

I was just the lad plowing behind, boots crunching twigs and muttering curses under my breath.

...

The fire crackled low between us, the kind of silence that settles when two men aren’t sure yet what to make of each other.

Toghan sat cross-legged across from me in his house. His eyes reflected the flames, though to me they seemed fixed on something much older. Something far away.

Akari had left us alone. I wasn’t sure if it was out of respect or because this was meant to be private. Either way, I was intriged.

“So,” I began, shifting on the low cushion beneath me, “What’s this all about?”

Toghan didn’t look at me right away. He stared into the fire like it had the inspiration he needed to bring his story. Then finally, he spoke.

“This house,” he said quietly, “...was built by man no longer welcome in his own land. A man whose name became stain where once it stood with pride.”

I said nothing. That kind of bitterness didn’t come from nowhere.

“My father,” Toghan continued, “was servant of Regent Tokai. Samurai, who governed coastal province in service to Shogun. Tokai was of noble blood, had many sons, many retainers. My father… not one of them. But relative.”

He looked up at me, something sharper beneath the calm.

“He was tool. A knife that vanished when not needed, but cut deep when it was.”

I raised a brow. “A…?”

Toghan nodded once. “Ninja. Yes. He leader of small clan. Unseen, but effective. Serving Tokai faithfully. Without song to speak our name.”

He stirred the fire slightly with a bit of wood. Sparks rose, brief and bright.

“But then came failure. A mission gone wrong. Details not matter. Only that it cost lives. Too many. Shame followed failure. Father was branded nukenin, rogue shinobi. A traitor to his own.”

I frowned. “Harsh, if he was loyal.”

“In that world,” Toghan said softly, “loyalty means nothing without success. He chose only path left to him.”

“Nay tell me he...”

A slow nod. “Seppuku. But before he drew blade, he asked me to take clan’s remnants and rebuild. Restore what was lost.”

He smiled then, a bitter, quiet thing. “I refused.”

I tilted my head. “Why?”

“Because I was still child,” he said. “Angry. Afraid. Tired of living in shadows. I wanted see world. Bit like you perhaps, Erickar. And I did.”

He leaned back, resting against the post behind him.

“I wandered. Fought. Learned. Survived. Many years later, came here.”

I watched him in the firelight, a man carved from quiet steel and quieter regrets.

“So,” I said slowly, “... this what ya built then instead of ya clan?”

Toghan’s eyes flicked to mine, sharper now. “I didn’t build a clan, Erickar. I built place where those like you… like Akari… don’t have to be weapons anymore. Or non-existing ghosts.”

I didn’t answer right away. The weight of his story, of what he turned his back on -and what he’d chosen instead- hung between us.

“Akari said I could become something more,” I murmured.

Toghan’s voice was quiet, but sure. “Yes, like us. And only if you choose to.”

“I don’t get it. If ya no longer are assa -” I swallowed that word when I noticed that look in his eyes. “... no longer people’s tools, what are ya then?”

“Sokunai.”

“What that mean? Sokunai?”

“That what we call our group. It means ‘few’ in your language. Because we are few.”

“So… Sokunai ninja?”

Once more Toghan shook his head at me. “No longer called ninja. Broke that connection. We be Maboroshi, or... phantoms.”

I mouthed the word, soundless. Then said. “Maybe heard of ya guys, once. Nay knew ye existed. Just rumors.”

Toghan folded his hands together. “There be much more to explain, but what matters is told.”

“Why me?” I suddenly blurted. “Ya caught I happen to have some skills? That it?”

Toghan tilted his head. “That. But not only that. Also cause of who you are, Erickar.”

“Oh aye? What be I then?”

Toghan didn’t answer right away. He studied me like a craftsman does a blade, weighing more than just the edge.

“You been broken. But not shattered. You understand what pain costs, and what it buys. You not back down from bleeding if there is reason to.”

I let that hang in the air. The fire snapped gently between us. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to feel seen or judged.

“Any… any more riddles that ya have to explain me?” I smirked a bit.

Toghan smiled faintly. His gaze didn’t waver however. “I want nothing from you. Sokunai ask for nothing. I want offer you something. A place, a choice. Not recruit, not take. We give chances to those who have nowhere else to stand. We want things make better. Such people also help protect others. Assist, aid.”

“Your shop?”

Toghan nodded. “A way to assist.”

“But… who is it you assist? What makes them deserve your attention?”

Toghan's eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in thought — as if weighing the depth of the question, or the worth of the answer.

“Deserve is not word I use lightly,” he said at last. “Most people think in terms of deserving. We not.”

I tilted my head. “Then how d’ya choose who’s worth helpin’?”

“We look for them. See who stands at edge,” he replied. “Those overlooked, discarded, crushed by systems built to favor only the few. Sokunai are not saviors. We are watchers. Quiet hands. Lift someone so they not fall. And if fall, we catch what we can.”

He leaned back, resting a palm on the floor behind him.

“Sometimes it’s farmer who lost land. A widow pushed out of home. A boy forced to steal just to eat. We not wait for justice. We are little push that shifts fate the right way.”

“Equalizing lives. That ain’t what I expected from phantoms,” I muttered.

“No,” Toghan agreed, “...people hear ninja, think they only blades in dark. Death without face. But that other life. Other era.”

“So, now?”

“Now,” he said, voice quiet but certain, “we live to make sure others get to.”

The fire kept going, same as before, but the warmth had gone out of it for me. His words stirred up old things. Things I’d stuffed deep where they wouldn’t bother me. Things I thought I’d left behind when I chose a blade and a flag instead of a plow or a proper life.

Piracy had been simple. Clear lines. Take or be taken from. No grand cause, no illusions of justice. Just a deck, a crew, and wind behind you. Until that all turned rotten too.

I’d told myself I did it 'cause the world never gave me much. Maybe I’d believed that once. Maybe I still did. But Toghan’s words, damn him, made it feel like maybe I’d just been too afraid to try being better.

“I… dunno,” I said finally, staring into the fire like he had before. “I get ya. I do. But part of me thinks… maybe I already made my choice, long ago. Chose the knife. Chose the shadow.”

Toghan didn’t flinch. Didn’t pity either. Just listened.

I chuckled bitterly, rubbing the back of my neck. “Feels a bit late now to pretend I could be anything else.”

“You already are,” he said simply. “You sit here. You ask. You listen. You already do more than others.”

I looked up at him, squinting. “And that’s enough, is it?”

“No,” he admitted. “But it’s start. And is what we offer.”

He stood slowly, bowing his head slightly toward me. “Rest. Think. The world stills spins, but you not have to chase it.”

And with that, he left me to the fire and my thoughts.

And the gnawing feeling that maybe, just maybe, there was still time to unmake the man I’d been. Or stop growing into the man I would become when following the current course.


Mom' ... didn't you more than once told me not to play with knives?

Cause I may end up in jail? Or worse?

[lum]

-----------------------------------
One year later


It was one of those days again where the sun clung to the air like molasses. Humid. Close. The scent of salt, fish, pitch, and sweat thick enough to taste.

The docks of Baldur’s Gate were in full chorus. Gulls shrieking overhead, sailors barking orders, iron-shod wheels rumbling across boarding planks, and ropes of cranes being operated creaking and groaning under the weight of freight.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell clanged, marking yet another ship’s arrival. The waters slapped lazily against barnacled piers while dockhands moved like ants across the jetty, unloading barrels, crates, and bundled goods from vessels with names in half a dozen different tongues. Luskan, Waterdhavian, there was even an Lantanese trader about.

Nothing seemed too unusual in the scene though. Nothing or no one really stood out.

Unless?


A man, bare to the waist, stood with a coil of rope resting against his shoulder and a sheen of sweat across his back that darkened the worn leather strap of his harness. Muscles moved supple under his tanned skin with practiced ease as he guided a crate onto a cart. Not by barking or dragging, let alone calling it names… but with a kind of quiet certainty that made the whole thing look intentional. Like the crate had wanted to be there.

Not did he only unload. He arranged. Crates, angled with care, were slid into place as if they were planned for some unspoken pattern, stacking them not only for convenience, but for symmetry and efficiency as well. A particular rhythm marked his every movement. Almost as if there was more ceremony to it than the job asked for.

The ropes he handled were tied with knots most sailors barely remembered, more suited to rigging in deep-sea storms than lazy, everyday dockwork. Loops fell with grace, tucked just so, even though no foreman would’ve cared if they dangled loose. His hands moved like they were doing more than labor. They were solving problems before they appeared.

Some would likely call it overkill. Others would call it strange.

But none said it to his face. And many didn't care.

He worked mostly in silence, save for the occasional nod to a passerby or a grunt shared with another laborer. No boasting. No badge. No name spoken aloud. There was just the sweat, the ropes, and crates that never seemed to shift an inch once he laid hands on them.

He was no longer a man known for blades or black sails. Just one of the many whose boots hit the dock each morning.

And yet… in the way he worked, the way he stood… someone very wakeful might swear this man, this dockhand was doing more than just work.

Along his shoulder, beside faded ink of an anchor and a compass, storms and sea beasts, sat one mark that seemed a bit strange to any sailor’s tale. A symbol done in fine, sure lines, too clean, too precise for a tavern needle. Its meaning was not shouted. But it was there.

Most wouldn’t notice. Even fewer would recognize. Perhaps for someone who knew what to look for?

[lum]

The sun hadn’t moved far overhead. Yet the rhythm of the docks and the work at the quays had shifted. Some crews were packing up for shore leave, others merely just beginning their day. Crates of dried fish were rolled out while a couple of vendors hawked about.

In the midst of it all, no one noticed the man with the sack of snails. No one looked twice when I turned and met his approach with a brief glance.

We didn’t speak. He didn’t stop moving. I didn’t stop doing what I was doing.

I was tying a long rope around two crates that were meant for warehouse twelve. I looped them twice with the kind of precision saved for storm lashing.

The man with the sack didn’t stop far from me and put it down on a cart. Perhaps a little too carefully? It was just off the edge of the cart. Not centered. Not flush.

Then, a pause.

I shifted one of the ropes, nudged the top crate a couple of inches to the right. The knot was at the side now, casting a shadow at a certain angle. Another crate leaned against the post, slanted, its marking turned slightly over, the ship’s sigil partially hidden.

The sack was picked up by the man again. Taken away.

A cart rolled on…

I glanced around as I hoisted another crate. The world kept moving, indifferent. I smiled to myself. Just another dockhand, sweating under Baldur’s sun. That’s all I was.

To them.

…


“You certain?” Toghan’s son Akari asked.

I nodded. “It was crystal clear, lad. The delivery will be made at foredawn.”

“Not at mornbright?”

I shot him a look, one brow raised.

“Aye, foredawn.” I grumbled. “Say, did I bloody stutter or anything. Unless ye think I nay be good at mi job…”

Akari chuckled under his breath but didn’t look up. “Just making sure. It could’ve been a split-angle marking. Easy mistake.”

“Oh aye?” I dropped the crate onto the cart with a soft thud that said the construction was not pleased. My grin to Akari said otherwise though. “Tell you what, lad. When y’ve spent three winters sorting messages out of fishing net tangles and broken lanterns on rolling decks, then ye get to question mi reading.”

Akari held up a hand in surrender. “All right, all right. I yield to the master of misaligned knot lore.”

“Damn right,” I muttered, already turning back to my work. “And it wasn’t misaligned. It was precise. Just subtle enough not to spook the greenhorns.”

Akari tilted his head. “You're starting to sound like father.”

“Saints preserve me,” I groaned, but the smile tugged at the corner of my mouth all the same.

Akari paused a moment before he glanced at me. “How are you exercises going?”

I rolled my shoulders after putting down another crate. “Which exactly? The moving like a swimming dragon? Or the turning like a circling eagle?”

“Well… any. If you need some help to practice, you know where I live.”

“Aye, matey. But first I’ll be finding some booz.”

Akari rolled his eyes. “Didn’t we explain about renouncing alcoholic beverages and women?”

“Man! Shhh..! Nay so loud,” I hissed, casting a few nervous glances over my shoulder. “Ye’re ruining mi good name around here.”