The morning arrived wrapped in silence and pale frost. Kyran stood barefoot in the courtyard, his breath coiling around him like mist. The worn planks beneath his feet were rimmed with hoarfrostt, each step biting into his soles, but he welcomed the sting. It meant he was awake—sharply, completely.
Rurik was already waiting, training blade slung across one shoulder, his silhouette firm and still beneath the watchful sky. He did not speak as Kyran approached. Words had grown sparse between them in the mornings—there was only movement now, the quiet ritual of blade and breath, of lessons passed without sound.
They began.
Kyran stepped into stance, knees slightly bent, core tight, back straight. Rurik's attack came low—Kyran parried with the flat of the wooden blade. A rotation. Shift of weight. A step back. Then forward again.
It repeated, over and over, until thought drained from him. His body remembered what his mind had yet to understand fully. He flowed through the drills like water caught in a stone channel.
And then something changed.
In the midst of a strike, just as his sword cut through the air, a hum filled the silence. Not a sound, not exactly. A sensation—like pressure building beneath his skin. The wooden hilt in his palms tingled, and suddenly the air cracked around him with a chill so sharp it stole the breath from his lungs.
He lowered the sword and stared. Frost had bloomed along the handle, spiderwebbing across the surface like the veins of a winter leaf. His fingers, slick with cold, twitched against the grain.
Rurik stepped forward, gaze narrowing.
"Let me see."
Kyran extended the sword without a word. Rurik touched the frost-covered grip—and jerked back slightly as a pulse of cold shot into his wrist.
They stood in silence, the wind rustling the trees like old parchment, as if the forest itself had taken note.
Later that morning, Rurik's voice was low and rough as old bark when he leaned against the hearth beside Mara. She was stirring a pot of oats, but her eyes were on the fire.
"He froze the handle," he muttered. "There was no snow, no moisture. Still, it iced in his grip."
"Maybe it's the weather," she replied, her voice thin with worry more than doubt. Her hand hovered above the pot a moment too long, and the spoon clattered gently against the side.
Rurik shook his head. "No. It was something else. The way the air thickened… it's like the sword responded to him."
"He's just a child."
"He's more than that," Rurik said. "And the more we pretend he isn't, the more we fail him."
Mara's gaze dropped to the floor. Her hand trembled as she adjusted the pot on the hearth. "What if we can't help him?" she whispered, more to herself than to Rurik.
Her husband didn't answer.
The village square buzzed with the low hum of everyday life. Smoke curled from chimneys, hens scratched frozen ground, and laughter echoed from the children near the well. They had cleared a patch of snow to play stickball, smacking half-rotten apples across the dirt with crooked branches.
Kyran walked past, a small axe slung at his sidee, a bundle of firewood strapped to his back. His shoulders were hunched, gaze downcast. He hoped to pass unnoticed.
But they saw him.
"There he is!" Lerek called, swaggering into his path. "Our little sword-ghost."
Kyran said nothing.
"What's the matter, freak?" another boy snered. "Too busy talking to spirits to answer?"
Laughter rose, bitter and sharp. Kyran winced inwardly. The words struck harder than fists, cutting colder than the wind that chapped his skin. A tightness seized his chest—like breath caught under ice. He kept moving, feet crunching on the snow.
Lerek stepped closer. "Come on, show us your sword dance, Kyran."
He shoved him, hard. The bundle shifted, sticks clattered to the dirt. Kyran knelt to gather them—another shove, this time square in the ribs.
And then the world shifted.
Time slowed, folding in on itself like the hush before snowfall. The air grew thick, heavy with memory not his own. Something old stirred behind his ribs—something honed and sharp.
Kyran's feet found stance—left foot back, right flat. Hips turned. His shoulder dipped.
And his fist flew.
It connected with a sickening crunch, full force across Lerek's nose. A wet, brittle crack echoed through the air. Blood fanned across the snow like spilled ink.
Lerek dropped with a shriek, hands clutching his ruined face, the snow stained with red and silence.
"Monster!" someone screamed.
"Bastard!" another hissed.
Kyran stood frozen, staring at his blood-slick knuckles. The word echoed through him like a tolling bell. Monster. As if it were carved into his skin.
Then he turned and ran.
He didn't return until dusk had pulled its violet cloak over the rooftops. From the trees beyond the garden wall, he crouched low, listening.
Through the cracked shutters, his parents' voices filtered into the cold.
"He broke the boy's nose," Rurik said, tension sharp in his throat. "Not wild. Not desperate. It was clean. Precise."
"He was cornered," Mara replied, her voice a whisper wrapped in ache. "They pushed him too far."
"He reacted like a soldier. Not a child. And it's not just this. You've seen how he watches the sword. How it... reaches for him."
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, as if bracing against something colder than the fireless room. Her gaze flicked toward the door.
"There are soldiers coming from Andora," Rurik said. "If I speak to them, they could take him. The Academy could teach him what we can't."
Mara's voice cracked. "He's only nine."
"And stronger than me," Rurik whispered. "You know it. I know it. We're running out of time."
Mara's fingers curled into her apron, knuckles white. "Will they love him?" she asked, and her voice broke on the word.
Rurik didn't answer.
Dawn peeled softly across the windowsil.
Kyran stood in the doorway, small and pale against the light.
"I don't want to go," he said.
Rurik paused at the hearth, boot half-laced. Mara stood behind him, unmoving.
"I don't want to leave. This is my home."
Silence stretched.
"We'll speak tonight," Rurik said at last.
But the choice had already begun to bloom, quiet as the frost beneath their feet.
And somewhere deep inside him, a voice stirred.
Not yet fully awake. But listening.