Years had passed since that quiet moment by the river.
Shizuku was no longer the armored guardian who once stood tall in command among soldiers. She had given up her post as a knight, exchanging the clang of steel for whispers in corridors, working now with the intelligence division—quiet work, but work that gave her time. Time for someone she had chosen to walk home with. Time for him.
Karma had grown.
Gone was the boy who clung to her cloak with trembling hands. In his place stood a young man—tall, with a quiet, unnerving grace. His face still carried the soft touch of his youth, but now it was sharpened by the weight of thought and time. His mismatched eyes seemed to carry the weight of other worlds.
When had his eyes changed? Shizuku often wondered this. The boy she'd found by the river had possessed a gaze that was dull, too dull to be noticed, or bothered.
She had tried to give him balance. A sword in hand, motion in body, something real to counter the storm inside him. She asked Rylan, her old comrade-in-arms, to train him. A steadfast friend from her mercenary days, now serving as a weapons master for noble houses. She hoped the discipline would ground the boy, would give him something beyond the nightmares that still woke him screaming.
But he absorbed every movement, every stance, every discipline within months—like echoes of something once known. They watched him move across the courtyard with such precise fluidity it unnerved her.
"Perhaps he had learned before", she told herself. In a home now burned into silence.
Now he rarely trained anymore—he used the old stone courtyard merely as his workout space. No practice. No sparring. Just solitary motion, a body sharpening itself alone.
---
In the early morning, the sky was still bruised with night when Karma stepped barefoot into the garden. The garden grown by him.
The cold air clung to his skin, but he didn't flinch. He moved through the flower field with fluid steps, a silver watering can swaying in one hand, his other brushing past the dew-drenched petals. His long, unkempt dark hair framed his sharp, maturing face. The once soft lines of his childhood had now turned striking and defined. His mismatched eyes—one vivid green, the other a haunting blue—glimmered like ancient glass under the half-moon.
He was tall now, lean yet muscular, his bare feet dirt-streaked as always. His breath came in soft clouds. The only sounds were the water pouring, the soil drinking, and the slight rustle of leaves as he moved between them like a ghost.
At the edge of the garden, he knelt and plucked a marigold—its orange petals bright even in the dim morning light. He examined it, turned it between his fingers, and then, wordlessly, placed it between his lips.
Petal by petal, he chewed. Slowly. Ritualistically.
The bitter taste grounded him. Reminded him he was here, in this body, in this moment. Seven years had passed since the river. Seven years of learning, of growing, of pretending to be normal.
When he stood again, his gaze drifted toward the training grounds.
The wooden floor of the training arena was cold beneath his feet. Karma stood shirtless, only bandages wrapped tightly around his chest and shoulders. They outlined the strength beneath his pale skin—an elegant but hardened build, shaped by something more than training. Discipline etched in flesh.
He picked up the wooden sword from its mount and bowed once, eyes closed, facing the cold wind. Then, in a flash, the air cracked.
Each strike he delivered to the dummy landed with absurd precision. And not just one. In every swing, there were layered movements—flickers of multiple impacts hidden inside a single motion.
Crack. Thud. Crack.
The dummy barely had time to shake before it was torn apart in one final horizontal sweep. Splinters scattered in the wind. Karma stood still, his breath even, lowering the wooden blade to his side.
A quiet clap echoed from the far wall.
"I see you still remember your teachings," said Rylan, with his thick grey scarf and one gauntlet. Shizuku's old comrade, once a knight, now retired. His weathered face held a cautious smile, but his eyes were searching.
Karma didn't speak. He simply turned his head, noticed him, and bowed again.
Rylan stepped forward, examining the ruined dummy. "Shizuku told me you'd been practicing alone. But this—this is not normal progression." His eyes narrowed. "You're hitting multiple angles at once... that's Flow-Edge, isn't it?"
Flow-Edge—an advanced technique that even seasoned knights spent years mastering. Not something a self-taught young man should know.
Karma gave a slow nod, then glanced down at the wooden sword. "The dummy is reinforced with magic. So is the sword. You told me not to use anything else."
He looked up at the man—no emotion in his face, but a cold, heavy awareness in his eyes.
"My old teachers restricted me too. All this makes me wonder if there is something wrong with me?"
The words hung in the air, loaded with meaning. "Old teachers?". Karma had never spoken of any training before Rylan. Never mentioned a past life beyond vague nightmares.
Rylan stiffened. Karma's eyes pierced him—an expression far too old, too weary, for a seventeen-year-old boy. It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't sadness. It was distance.
As if he were peering from the edge of something far beyond this place.
"...No," Rylan said quietly. "There's nothing wrong with you."
But in his heart, he felt something tighten.
That boy's gaze didn't belong to the young man he saw before him.
It belonged to something else.
Rylan had asked Shizuku about teaching Karma the deeper arts of the Knighthood Path—the powers that went beyond physical combat into the realm of energetic mastery. She had refused, her eyes flashing with worry.
"There's something about him, Rylan," she had whispered. "Something awakening. I don't know if we should feed it."
Now, watching the boy handle a wooden sword with the precision of a master, he understood her concerns.
"You should go inside," Rylan said finally. "Shizuku will be awake soon. She worries when you're out here alone."
Karma's expression softened slightly at the mention of her name. It was the only thing that seemed to reach him some days—his connection to the woman who had saved him.
"I'll be in soon," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I just need a moment."
Rylan nodded and left him there, standing among the splinters of the training dummy, the wooden sword held loosely in one hand. As he walked back to the house, he glanced over his shoulder.
Karma was looking up at the sky, his mismatched eyes reflecting the fading stars.
---
Meanwhile, upstairs, the maid Lily entered Karma's room with a sigh. As always, it was a beautiful chaos. Books filled half the room—bookshelves lining the wall, crammed with texts written in foreign, forgotten tongues. Fantasy epics, theology, philosophy, religious texts and myths whose gods had long since fallen silent.
A bed in the corner, rarely used. A study table beside it, often lit late into the night. A vase sat on the table, with a rose and a lily bloomed inside it.
Soft. Fragile. Still alive.
Lily gently picked up one of the scattered papers and squinted at it. It was part of a strange poem—half written in an old dialect. Something about a door that never opened, and the silence that guarded it.
Shizuku had once tried to ask him about these writings.
"Why do you work on these in the night, Karma?" she had asked, concern etched into the lines around her eyes.
"Because the nights are honest. No one speaks to me then. The world is quiet enough to remember," he had replied, his voice distant, as if reciting something he'd heard long ago.
"Remember what?" she had pressed.
But he had only shaken his head, touching the nightstone through his shirt.
And every morning, they would find the mess. Pages that read like dreams. Like prophecy. Or madness.
Lily smiled faintly, then set the pages on the table and closed the door.
Outside, the sun was beginning to rise.
Shizuku woke up as the morning market was coming to life. Her silver hair was now cut shorter, practical for her work in intelligence. At forty-three, she still retained the beauty, grace and strength of her knighthood days, though fine lines had begun to frame her eyes.
"Lady Shizuku," the guard captain greeted her with a small bow. "Master Karma has been at the training grounds since dawn."
She nodded, unsurprised. "And Rylan?"
"He arrived shortly after. They spoke briefly."
Something in his tone made her pause. "What is it, Tomas?"
The guard captain hesitated. "The boy... he destroyed another training dummy. In seconds. Lord Rylan seemed... concerned."
Shizuku sighed, rubbing her temples. "I see. Thank you."
She left her room. As she walked through the halls, she felt the weight of the past seven years. She had given up her command position, taken work that kept her closer to home, all to provide stability for the broken child she'd found by the river. And while that child had grown into a remarkable young man in many ways, there were depths to him that sometimes frightened her.
As she turned a corner near the main hall, two young maids exited the kitchen. Their hair was tousled and cheeks flushed from more than just cold air. They froze the moment they saw her, "Lady Shizuku." One bowed, the other followed quickly, avoiding eye contact.
Shizuku narrowed her eyes slightly, saying nothing.
She already knew. She didn't want to, but she did. He sleeps with the young maids. It wasn't scandalous—he was of age, and this was a world of power and quiet indulgence—but still, it prickled something in her chest.
The scent changed as she entered the kitchen: warm herbs, earthy steam, and the faint undertone of marigold.
Inside, Karma stood calmly at the stove, dressed in his loose morning shirt, sleeves rolled. Steam rose from the teapot, coiling toward the ceiling like a spirit rising.
"You're up early," he said, not turning. His voice was deep, a soft echo in the quiet kitchen. "Good morning, Shizu."
His voice had grown deeper over the years, but still held that strange, soft grace that never matched the weight he carried in his eyes.
"Good morning," she replied quietly, watching him.
"You destroyed another dummy," she said, but there was no real reproach in her voice.
He shrugged, pouring her tea. "I'll order a new one."
He turned, offering her a steaming cup with both hands. "Your tea."
"That's not the point, Karma." She accepted the cup, inhaling the fragrant steam. "Rylan says you're using techniques you shouldn't know."
His mismatched eyes met hers, unblinking. "I dream them."
"I used marigold this time," he said, pouring his own. "It's my own recipe. You've been sleeping too shallow lately."
She lifted the cup, inhaling. The warm scent bloomed in her lungs.
"You remembered," she said softly.
He smiled. "I remember everything."
He sat opposite her, one arm resting on the edge of the table, his other hand cradling his own cup. The steam curled up between them. The table was wide, yet she felt as if there was no distance between them at all.
As she sipped, the rich, strange taste spread across her tongue—warm, slightly bitter, with a fragrance of marigold and other herbs. His special blend.
"It's stronger than usual," she murmured.
"I added blue lotus and crushed fennel seeds," he said. "To help your migraines."
She looked up—and caught his gaze. His gaze lingered too long. Too intently.
"The first signs of time had begun to etch themselves beneath your eyes, soft creases like fading ink on old parchment," he whispered in his mind
She sipped her tea, averting her eyes.
She didn't say a word, but he leaned forward, reaching across the table with deliberate grace. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear.
She froze.
His hand retreated.
"I'll head to the library after having breakfast," he said softly. "You should go too. Your work's waiting."
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out for a moment. Then she nodded, setting the cup down. "You've been going out more often lately."
He tilted his head. "Managing the estate's finances isn't a full-time job. The library outside is... peaceful."
"You isolate yourself," she said, her voice quieter than before. "Even from me."
He smiled at her then. A quiet, knowing smile. "I like silence," he said.
Silence.
She rose slowly. "Come home early. I want to take you somewhere."
His eyes narrowed for a moment—an instinctive flicker, as if weighing something unspoken. Then the smile returned, gentler this time.
"I will."
And then he stood, finishing his tea. He walked past her, and she felt his presence trailing like a shadow, or a memory.
She stayed seated a little longer, sipping the marigold tea, wondering when the boy she rescued had grown into a man with eyes that spoke of worlds she had never known.