The winter did not arrive with a roar, but with a conspiratorial silence. By the second week of the high frost, the Monastery of the Broken Cloud had been transformed into a fortress of white and grey. The mist that usually clung to the peaks had frozen into a shimmering rime that coated every stone, every wooden beam, and every silent practitioner. For the youth, the cold was an old acquaintance, but here, it felt different. In Oakhaven, the cold was a thief that stole the warmth from your bones; here, it was a whetstone. It stripped away the soft layers of the ego until only the hard, essential grain of the spirit remained.
The training had intensified. Master Ren no longer spoke of balance; he spoke of the harvest. He taught the students that every strike was a reaping, and every parry was a preservation. The youth's hands were now permanently mapped with thin, pale scars from the wooden bokken, but beneath the skin, his muscles had hardened into cords of iron. He moved differently now. The clumsy, reactive movements of the village boy had been replaced by a predatory stillness. He no longer looked at his opponent's blade; he looked at the space where the blade was going to be.
One morning, as the sun hung like a pale, frozen coin in the sky, the Great Bell of the monastery rang. It was a sound rarely heard—a deep, bronze groan that vibrated in the marrow of the teeth. It signaled the arrival of a visitor who would not be turned away by the bridge.
The youth stood with Koji and the other students in the main courtyard. They were a line of grey statues, their wooden swords held at their sides. Through the stone archway came a procession that looked like a bloodstain on the pristine snow. Twelve riders, dressed in the black and crimson of the Imperial High Guard, led by a man whose presence seemed to suck the warmth out of the air.
This was Commander Varos of the Southern Prefecture. He was a man of middle years, his face a landscape of jagged lines and old burns. He didn't wear a helmet, and his hair was a shock of iron-grey that matched the sky. He did not dismount immediately. Instead, he sat atop his massive black stallion, looking down at the students with a mixture of boredom and contempt.
Master Ren emerged from the shadows of the hall, his hands tucked into his sleeves. He did not bow. The mountain does not bow to the plain, Varos, he said, his voice calm and resonant.
And the plain does not ask permission from the mountain when it decides to rise, Varos replied, his voice a gravelly rasp. The Emperor is tired of shadows, Ren. He is tired of old men whispering about the past in the clouds. He wants what belongs to him.
Nothing here belongs to the Emperor, Ren said. This is a place of study, not a treasury.
Varos laughed, a dry sound like the breaking of dead branches. Don't play the philosopher with me. We know the girl Isara was here. And we know you have taken in a stray—a boy with no name but a very specific lineage. The Ember Night did not kill everyone, it seems. One little spark escaped the hearth.
The youth felt a cold jolt of adrenaline. He didn't move a muscle, but his heart began to drum a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He looked at Varos and saw the man's eyes scanning the line of students. When the gaze passed over him, it lingered for a fraction of a second—a predatory flash of recognition that made the youth's skin crawl.
We are looking for the scion of the House of Ash, Varos continued, dismounting with a heavy clatter of armor. A boy who carries a certain mark on his left shoulder. A boy who, if left to grow, might think he has a claim to a throne that no longer exists.
The youth's left shoulder began to itch, a phantom sensation over the spot where a small, star-shaped birthmark lay hidden beneath his tunic. He had never thought of it as a mark of royalty; to him, it was just a blemish, a part of the 'nobody' he was.
Master Ren stepped forward, his body shielding the students from Varos's direct line of sight. There are no kings here. Only those who seek to master themselves.
Varos drew his sword. It was a magnificent weapon, forged from folded imperial steel, the blade shimmering with an oily, blue light. If you will not give him up, then I will have to find him myself. And I have a very efficient way of sorting the wheat from the chaff.
He pointed the tip of his blade at Koji, who stood at the end of the front row. You. The one with the pretty smile. Step forward. Let us see if the mountain has taught you anything more than how to stand in the cold.
Koji looked at Master Ren, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod. Koji stepped forward, his wooden bokken held in a low, defensive stance. His face was pale, but his grip was steady.
A wooden toy against imperial steel? Varos sneered. You monks are either very brave or very stupid.
I only need to show you that your steel has no home here, Koji said, his voice surprisingly firm.
The fight was over almost before it began. Varos moved with a brutal, efficient speed that made the youth's stomach turn. He didn't use the elegant forms of the monastery; he used the weight of his armor and the raw power of a man who had killed hundreds. Koji managed to parry the first two strikes, the wood of his bokken groaning under the impact. But on the third strike, Varos didn't aim for the blade. He stepped inside Koji's guard and drove his metal-clad elbow into the boy's throat.
As Koji gasped for air, Varos spun his blade in a glittering arc and sliced through the wooden bokken as if it were parchment. He stopped the edge of his steel an inch from Koji's jugular.
Chaff, Varos spat. He kicked Koji in the chest, sending him sprawling into the snow. Next.
The youth felt a wave of cold fury rising in his chest. It wasn't the hot, reckless anger of his childhood; it was something deeper, a dark tide that seemed to pull at the very foundations of his soul. He looked at Koji, coughing and clutching his throat, and then he looked at Varos.
The Commander's eyes found him again. You. The one who looks like he's made of stone. Step out.
The youth walked forward. He didn't look at Ren. He didn't look at the other students. He felt as if he were walking through a dream where every step was weighted with lead. He reached into his belt and pulled out his rusted short sword.
The imperial soldiers burst into laughter. Varos joined them, his shoulders shaking with genuine amusement. That? You intend to face me with a kitchen knife that's seen better days?
It's not a knife, the youth said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears—hollow and distant. It's a mirror.
Varos's smile vanished. He recognized the phrase. He looked at the youth with a new intensity, his eyes narrowing as he took in the boy's stance. The youth wasn't holding the sword like a student; he was holding it with a casual, terrifying familiarity. He was balanced perfectly, his weight centered, his breathing so slow it was almost nonexistent.
Who told you that? Varos whispered. Who told you about the mirror?
An old man with one eye, the youth replied.
The silence that followed was so absolute that the sound of a single snowflake hitting the ground seemed like a thunderclap. Varos's face went pale, the scars on his skin standing out like white worms.
One-Eye, Varos murmured. So the old fox is still breathing. I should have burned the whole mountain twenty years ago.
He raised his sword, his posture changing from arrogant to wary. If you are his pupil, then you are exactly what I came for. Prepare to die, Nameless.
Varos attacked with a ferocity that was meant to end the fight instantly. He launched a high, vertical strike, putting his entire body weight into the blow. The youth didn't parry. He didn't even raise his blade. At the last possible second, he shifted his lead foot three inches to the left. The imperial steel whistled past his ear, cutting the air so close he could feel the cold wake of the metal.
The youth moved in the shadow of the strike. He didn't swing his sword; he used it like a surgeon's tool. He stepped in close, his shoulder brushing Varos's breastplate, and drove the hilt of his rusted blade into the Commander's wrist.
There was a sickening crack. Varos roared in pain, his sword slipping from his numb fingers. Before the weapon could hit the snow, the youth caught it by the hilt with his left hand.
For a heartbeat, the youth stood with two blades—one rusted and short, the other gleaming and long. He held them crossed in front of him, forming a 'V' that framed Varos's terrified face.
The imperial soldiers moved to draw their bows, but Master Ren was faster. With a movement that defied his age, he was suddenly among them, his hands moving in a blur of strikes that sent bows flying and men tumbling from their saddles.
Stay your hands! Ren commanded, his voice echoing like thunder off the mountain peaks. The duel is between the masters!
Varos backed away, clutching his shattered wrist. His face was no longer that of a conqueror; it was the face of a man who had seen a ghost. You... you move like him. The same economy. The same lack of hesitation. You are the son of the Ash King.
The youth looked at the imperial sword in his hand. He felt the power humming through the steel, a dark, ancestral call that seemed to vibrate in his very marrow. He looked at the 'star' on his shoulder, though he couldn't see it through his clothes. He felt the weight of a thousand years of blood and betrayal.
I am nobody, the youth said, but his voice was no longer empty. It was full of a terrible, quiet certainty. And nobody is going to kill you today, Varos. Not because you don't deserve it, but because I am not a tool for your Emperor's nightmares.
He tossed the imperial sword into the snow at Varos's feet. Take your men and go. Tell your master that the mountain is closed. Tell him that the ashes he thought he buried are still warm.
Varos looked at the sword, then at the youth. He saw the cold light in the boy's eyes and knew that he was looking at something he couldn't control. He scrambled to pick up his blade, his movements jerky and panicked.
This isn't over, Varos hissed, mounting his horse with difficulty. The Empire has thousands of blades. You are one boy in a pile of rocks. We will return with fire.
We will be here, the youth said.
The riders turned and fled, their horses' hooves throwing up plumes of white snow as they vanished into the mist. The courtyard returned to its unnatural silence. The students began to move again, helping Koji to his feet and whispering among themselves.
Master Ren approached the youth. He looked at the rusted short sword, which was still gripped tightly in the boy's hand. You did well, he said softly. But you have opened a door that cannot be closed.
I didn't open it, the youth said, looking at the path where the riders had disappeared. They've been knocking on it since the day I was born. I just finally decided to answer.
Ren placed a hand on his shoulder. The weight of the iron is heavy, but the weight of a crown is heavier, even if that crown is made of ash. You are no longer just a student, Nobody. You are a target.
I've always been a target, the youth replied. At least now I know why.
He walked to the edge of the courtyard and looked out at the vast, frozen world. He thought about One-Eye and Isara. He thought about the woman in his dreams and the smoke of Oakhaven. The pieces of his life were starting to click together, forming a picture he didn't necessarily want to see.
Koji came up beside him, his throat bruised but his eyes bright with a new kind of respect. That was... incredible, he whispered. Where did you learn to move like that?
I didn't learn it, the youth said, and he realized it was the truth. It was just there, waiting for the right moment to come out. It's not a skill, Koji. It's a haunting.
He looked at his rusted blade. It was chipped and ugly, but it had held true. It had been the bridge that allowed him to cross from the boy who ran to the man who stood.
That night, the monastery did not sleep. Sentinels were posted at every approach, and the forge was lit, the sound of hammers against steel a constant heartbeat in the dark. The youth sat by the fire in the main hall, cleaning his blade. He felt a presence behind him and turned to see Isara. She was leaning against a pillar, her indigo cloak shadowed by the firelight.
You found the mark, she said.
It found me, he replied.
Are you ready for what comes next? she asked. The Southern Prefecture was just the scout. The Emperor will send the Black Guard next. Men who don't feel pain and don't know the meaning of mercy.
I'm ready for the truth, the youth said. Whatever it costs.
Isara stepped into the light. Her eyes were sad. The truth always costs everything, little ghost. That's why most people prefer the lie. But you... you were born for the cost.
She reached out and traced the line of his jaw with a cold finger. The House of Ash was destroyed because they loved the people more than the power. Don't make the same mistake. In this world, love is a leak in the boat.
Then I'll learn to swim, the youth said.
She smiled, a fleeting, ghost-like expression. I think you already have.
She vanished into the shadows, leaving him alone with the fire. He looked at the flames and saw the faces of all those he had lost. He realized then that he wasn't fighting for a throne or a name. He was fighting for the right to be the one who decided who he was.
He closed his eyes and listened to the mountain. The wind was howling again, a mournful sound that seemed to carry the names of the dead. But beneath the wind, there was the steady, rhythmic pulse of the forge. The world was preparing for war, and for the first time in his life, the Son of Nobody felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
The winter was only beginning, and the blades were just starting to hum. But as he gripped the hilt of his sword, he felt a strange, terrifying peace. The search was over. The hunt had begun.