A few days later, Robin was walking through one of the castle's less-used hallways. He had just finished his grueling morning training and was on his way back to his room, his mind already planning his next secret trip to the library.
He was walking with a purpose he hadn't had before, his back straight, his steps a little more confident. His Endurance was now high enough that he could walk a whole hallway without feeling like he was about to faint.
It was a major accomplishment.
This new confidence was a mistake. It made him noticeable.
As he rounded a corner, he almost ran into two other boys. They were older, bigger, and radiated the arrogant energy of those who had never known a day of real hardship in their lives. Robin recognized them instantly. They were his "brothers."
The first was John Tregor, the heir. He was now a young teenager, about fourteen, already tall and broad-shouldered. He had the same proud, handsome face as his father, and he carried himself with an air of absolute authority.
He looked at Robin with a bored, uninterested expression, as if he were looking at a piece of furniture he didn't particularly like.
The second boy was David Tregor, the middle child, about twelve years old. David was not as handsome as John, and he knew it. He was stockier, with a perpetually flushed face and a sneer that seemed to be his default expression.
He was a boy overflowing with angry, frustrated energy, always looking for a way to prove he was just as important as his perfect older brother. And the perfect target for that frustration had just walked around the corner.
David's eyes lit up with a cruel sort of glee. He stepped forward, blocking Robin's path.
"Well, well, look what crawled out from under a rock," David taunted, his voice loud and obnoxious in the empty hallway. He poked Robin in the chest with a thick finger. "It's the family curse. I heard you were learning to walk. Is that true?"
Robin said nothing. He simply stood there, his face a calm, blank mask. He didn't show fear. He didn't show anger. He just looked at David, his eyes cold and empty.
John, the older brother, just rolled his eyes, clearly bored by the whole thing. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, ready to watch the show. He wouldn't interfere. This was beneath him.
David was annoyed by Robin's lack of a reaction. He wanted a reaction. He wanted tears, or begging, or at least a good terrified squeak. He was getting nothing.
"What's wrong, curse?" David snarled, his face getting redder. "Cat got your tongue? Or are you just too weak to talk?"
He gave Robin a hard shove.
BAM!
The push wasn't incredibly strong, but to Robin's still-frail body, it was like being hit by a battering ram. He had no balance, no core strength to resist it. He stumbled backward, his feet tangling together, and went down hard.
He landed painfully on the cold stone floor, the impact jarring every bone in his body. A sharp pain shot up his spine. For a moment, the world went a little fuzzy.
David and his friends, a couple of sniveling lackeys who followed him everywhere, burst out laughing.
"Hahaha! Look at him!" one of them cackled. "He fell over like a baby deer!"
"I barely touched him!" David boasted, puffing out his chest. He looked over at John, seeking approval, but his older brother just gave a noncommittal shrug.
Robin lay on the floor. The pain was real, a sharp, throbbing ache in his tailbone. The humiliation was also real. A part of him, the prideful soul of Commander Justin, wanted to leap up and show this spoiled little brat what real fighting looked like.
He knew a dozen ways to disable David in under three seconds, even with this weak body. A quick jab to the throat, a precise strike to the nerve cluster behind the knee…
But he crushed the impulse. That was not the plan. The plan was to remain a ghost. To be underestimated. To be seen as weak and worthless.
Exposing his skills now, over a childish shove, would be a catastrophic mistake. It would raise questions he couldn't answer and ruin the foundation of weakness he had so carefully built.
So, he didn't fight back. He didn't cry out. He didn't even glare.
He simply lay there on the cold stone, his head turned to the side. But his mind was not idle. His mind was a whirlwind of activity. He was a commander on a battlefield, and he was gathering intelligence.
He looked at David, but he didn't just see a bully. He saw an opponent. He analyzed everything.
He memorized David's posture. The way he leaned forward when he taunted someone, putting his weight on the balls of his feet. Arrogant and unbalanced.
He memorized his footwork. The way David put all his weight on his right leg before he shoved, leaving his left leg momentarily light and easy to sweep. A classic mistake.
He memorized the angle of the shove. A straight, telegraphed push with no feints, no subtlety. All power, no technique.
He memorized the look in his eyes. The desperate need for approval from his older brother, the anger that fueled him. This was his primary motivation and his greatest weakness.
He wasn't just lying there taking abuse. He was downloading data. He was filing away every detail, every tell, every weakness. He was like a scribe carefully noting down every single mistake David made. This was not a defeat. This was surveying.
To John and David, he was just a pathetic little heap on the floor. A worthless thing that wasn't even worth kicking a second time.
"Come on, David," John said with a sigh, finally tired of the game. "Let's go. I'm bored."
David, having gotten the small victory he needed, gave Robin one last contemptuous sneer. "Stay on the floor where you belong, little curse," he spat.
Then they walked away, their laughter echoing down the long hallway.
Robin lay there until the sound of their footsteps was completely gone. Only then did he slowly, painfully, push himself up. His back ached. His pride, the pride of the old Commander Justin, was a raw, stinging wound.
But as he stood up, brushing the dust from his simple clothes, his expression was not one of sadness or humiliation. It was one of cold, detached calculation.
He had just been handed a gift. David, in his arrogance, had shown him all of his cards. He had revealed his weaknesses, his motivations, and his predictable patterns of attack.
He stored the information away in the cold, dark vault of his mind. It was a debt. And like all his debts, it would one day be paid back in full. With interest.