The rain fell for three days.
Ryn sat on the steps of what had once been Kael Manor, watching the water turn the courtyard's blood to pink sludge that trickled between the cobblestones. The city guard had come and gone, their questions hollow, their pity worse. They'd offered him a place in the orphan's ward. He'd refused with silence.
On the fourth morning, when the storm clouds finally broke, a shadow fell across him.
"You look like shit."
Ryn didn't bother looking up. He knew that voice - rough as gravel, sharp as a knife's edge. Captain Lira, his father's old weapons master. The woman who'd broken three of his ribs during his first sparring lesson.
**[Captain Lira | Body Astra]**
She stood over him, her scarred face twisted in its usual scowl. The morning light caught the milky white of her blind eye, the long scar that ran from forehead to chin. Her soldier's coat smelled of oil and old blood.
When Ryn didn't respond, she kicked his boot. "I said you look like shit."
"I heard you." His voice sounded alien to his own ears - flat and dead.
Lira snorted and tossed something into his lap. A canteen. "Drink. Then stand up. The dead don't need mourners, and you're wasting daylight."
The water tasted of metal and something herbal. It burned going down. Ryn coughed, his empty stomach clenching.
"They're burning the bodies today," Lira said, watching the smoke rising from the city's pyre pits. "You should be there."
"Why?" The word tore from his throat like broken glass. "So I can watch what's left of my family turn to ash?"
Lira's calloused hand grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her one good eye was the color of storm clouds. "So you can remember what happens when you're weak."
She released him with a shove that nearly sent him tumbling down the steps. When Ryn regained his balance, she was already walking away, her boots kicking up puffs of wet ash.
"Wait." The word escaped before he could stop it.
Lira paused but didn't turn.
Ryn's hands clenched. The canteen dented in his grip. "Teach me."
"Teach you what?"
"To kill him."
For the first time in days, something stirred in Ryn's chest. Not grief. Not fear. Something hotter. Darker.
Lira finally turned, studying him with that piercing gaze. After a long moment, she reached into her coat and pulled out a small, dented whistle. She tossed it at his feet.
"First lesson: learn to stand on your own." She jerked her chin toward the ruined manor. "There's a chest in your father's study. Third floor. Bring it to the old watchtower by sundown if you're serious."
Then she was gone, her coat flapping behind her like a wounded bird's wing.
Ryn stared at the whistle. It was plain iron, scratched and battered. Nothing like the polished silver trinkets he'd owned as a noble's son. He picked it up. It was heavier than it looked.
The climb to the third floor took hours.
The manor groaned around him, its bones broken. Ryn's breath came in ragged gasps as he pulled himself through collapsed corridors, his hands bleeding from broken glass and splintered wood. The study door hung from one hinge. Inside, the smell of burnt parchment and rain.
The chest was where Lira said it would be - beneath the shattered remains of his father's desk. Iron-bound oak, small enough to carry but large enough to be awkward. The Kael crest was carved into its lid, the wind-and-sword sigil he'd traced with childish fingers a lifetime ago.
Ryn hesitated. Then opened it.
Inside lay three things:
A dagger, its blade black as midnight.
A cloak, gray and unremarkable.
And a single sheet of parchment.
Ryn's hands shook as he unfolded it. His father's handwriting, precise and familiar:
*"If you're reading this, the storm has come. The wind will guide you, son. But remember - even the mightiest gale begins with a single breath."*
Something wet hit the parchment. Ryn didn't realize he was crying until the ink began to blur.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing ash and blood and tears. Then he took the cloak and fastened it around his shoulders. The dagger went into his belt. The note he folded carefully and tucked against his chest.
When Ryn stepped from the ruins of his home, the sun was sinking behind the mountains. The watchtower stood on the cliffs beyond the city, its silhouette jagged against the red sky.
He took his first step. Then another.
Behind him, the wind stirred the ashes of Kael Manor, carrying them out to sea.
Before him, the path to vengeance stretched long and dark.
And Ryn walked.