"Some truths don't reveal themselves with light… but with the shadows they cast."
⸻
The boy in the window hadn't moved.
Neither had Kaizlan.
Two silhouettes frozen on opposite sides of the glass, separated by nothing but air, and yet… Kaizlan felt as if there was a chasm between them, wide enough to swallow years of memory.
The silver-haired youth tilted his head slightly, as if sensing something. His eyes—gray, sharp, unyielding—locked with Kaizlan's for the briefest moment.
It was enough.
A cold pulse rippled through Kaizlan's veins, as if his own blood recognized the boy before his mind could.
That mark… the inverted blade-shaped birthmark, clearly visible on the left side of the youth's neck.
It was the same.
Exactly the same.
Kaizlan's hand instinctively rose to his own neck, fingers brushing over the familiar texture of the skin there. For a second, he almost forgot why he was here.
This isn't coincidence.
⸻
The man training the boy—Raen—turned abruptly, eyes scanning the darkness outside.
Kaizlan stepped back into the shadow of the wall, his breath measured, every muscle still. He could feel the weight of Raen's presence even from here; the man moved like someone who had seen too many winters survive him.
When Raen looked away, Kaizlan silently scaled the side of the house, perching on the roof where the moonlight couldn't reach him.
From here, he could see the entire property: the broken fence, the patch of unkempt grass, the narrow trail leading into the woods. More importantly, he could hear their voices.
Raen's tone was steady, disciplined. The boy's voice… sharp, but young.
They spoke of stances, footwork, and control of breath. Nothing unusual.
And yet, Kaizlan couldn't shake the feeling that each word was a thread—threads leading somewhere he wasn't supposed to follow.
⸻
Focus. The mission.
He recalled his orders with precision:
Infiltrate quietly.
Eliminate the target.
Leave no trace.
The "target" now had a face. And that face carried a shadow of his own past.
Kaizlan's grip tightened on the hilt of his dagger. The leather-wrapped handle felt heavier than usual.
The voice of his old instructor whispered again, sharp and unforgiving:
"Hesitation is the luxury of the dead."
⸻
Midnight drew closer.
Raen and the boy entered the house, leaving the yard silent.
Kaizlan moved to the window again, watching the boy place a small dagger on the table—its blade dulled, likely for training.
He could kill him now. A single motion, swift and final.
But his feet didn't move.
Not yet.
Instead, Kaizlan found himself asking the one question a killer should never ask:
Why does he look like me?
And in that moment of quiet doubt… somewhere in the distance, a crow called.