The moment time seemed to stop was when I saw the pain in my sister's eyes, tears streaming like a river I had no power to dam.
"How...?" I whispered, heart fraying at the edges.
But then I remembered—archery. My talent wasn't just a weak skill; it was precision, control, the art of striking where it hurts most.
With a slow, steady breath, I lifted the knife in my shaking hand.
In a blur—faster than anything around me— I threw the knife. It struck the thug squarely in the head. His body crumpled as if the world beneath him gave way.
"You die today," I hissed, eyes blazing electric blue.
There was no mercy in those words.
I didn't pause. In a frenzy, I grabbed another thug by his collar. The cold steel of my blade found his throat again and again, each strike fueled by anger, fear, and a desperate need to protect.
My sister watched, bawling silently, trembling under the weight of the nightmare unfolding before her.
Finally, I delivered a savage blow—aimed at the most vulnerable of targets—and the last thug fell, defeated and groaning at my feet.
Silence returned, shattered only by her soft sniffles.
I turned to her, my glowing eyes softening just enough to say, "Nothing will happen to you. I will protect you."
I carried her back to the manor, hands bruised and trembling.
When my mother asked about the scars and blood, I took the blame, swallowing the words with the bitter taste of guilt. "It was my fault," I said quietly.
Hours later, she woke, eyes heavy but alive. My sister's gaze met mine — filled with pain, but also something like hope.
I sat beside her, voice rough but honest. "I'm sorry. For everything."
The words felt heavy. Inside, I wrestled with my growing power—was I becoming the very villain I had feared? The protector needed to be ruthless, even merciless.
"I won't do anything to hurt you," I said, voice steady. "Whether you forgive me or not is your choice."
After that, I left the room.
The heavy silence that followed her injury cracked like a fragile windowpane, just before my father's furious roar shattered the quiet halls of the manor.
"What in God's name were you thinking, putting my son's life at risk like that? You will pay for this—mark my words!" His voice thundered, echoing against stone walls, full of rage that could carve through mountains.
Every eye in the room turned toward me and my sister. My sister trembled behind me, eyes wide and haunted.
But I didn't flinch.
I stepped forward, every muscle taut beneath my skin, my eyes igniting into a fierce, blazing blue—a warning blaze that promised reckoning. My voice was cold but steady.
"Enough."
"Do not lay a finger on her. Not one more insult."
The room held its breath as my words hung in the heavy air like a threat carved in ice.
"If you raise your voice again at her," I said, voice low but lethal, "then no one here will escape the storm to come."
The flame in my eyes pulsed with dangerous intensity, an untouchable barrier between my sister and my father's fury.
My mother met my gaze then, and in that brief moment, a small, proud smile curved her lips. A silent affirmation, a fragile truce between the broken pieces of our family.
Without another word, I turned away, the weight of the household pressing down like a storm cloud behind me.
The path ahead was clear. The training grounds awaited.