Time moved differently inside the mansion.
Days turned into months.
Months into years.
The air remained still. The silence, constant.
Keal had grown.
By two, he was walking with quiet precision—feet always placed deliberately, ears ever alert. He didn't ask for toys. He didn't seek comfort. He followed footsteps, not voices. Silence was his cradle; sound, his guide.
By five, his world was a map of echoes.
One morning, Keal awoke to the unfamiliar rhythm of panting—sharp, repetitive, controlled. It came from beyond the shoji-screened window. He sat up in bed, tilting his head toward the sound. Bodies moving. Breaths burning. Footfalls shifting.
Training.
He turned toward Rhea's presence before she even spoke.
"What's going on outside?" he asked, his voice soft but steady.
Rhea, folding a blanket nearby, froze mid-motion. It was rare for him to speak unprompted.
"There are people," she said, "training in the courtyard. They serve your father."
Keal's brow furrowed slightly. "Training for what?"
Rhea paused, then replied, "You'll understand one day. Don't worry."
He nodded once, then turned his attention back to the courtyard. For a few long moments, he simply listened—sorting the noise from the silence, dividing the chaos into patterns. Breath. Step. Swing. Grunt. Repeat.
"…Thirty," he said quietly.
Rhea blinked. "What?"
"There are thirty people out there. I counted their voices."
She regarded him carefully, then smiled just a little—more with her eyes than her mouth.
"There are thirty training," she said. "But thirty-five in total, including the ones observing."
Keal's head tilted. He hadn't expected her to confirm it. His lips pressed together thoughtfully.
Unseen behind the door, Cain stood motionless.
He had come to check on Keal, but now he remained silent, listening. The exchange confirmed what he'd suspected—what he'd hoped. The boy was ready.
Ready for more than sound.
Ready for more than listening.
Ready for pain.
But not yet.
Not fully.
Cain's mind worked quickly. The foundation had been set, but the real trials—the real shaping—had yet to begin. First, he would introduce something new. Subtle additions. Layers of stress, of challenge. Keal needed to break and rebuild without realizing it was happening.
And when the time came, Cain would no longer train him like a child.
He would forge him like a weapon.
---
Cain gave a single instruction:
"Let him follow you. Have him observe everything—cooking, laundry, cleaning. Every movement. Every detail."
Rhea nodded without question.
From the next day on, Keal began trailing behind her like a shadow. He never complained. Never questioned. Just listened and mimicked. Rhea offered small corrections—how to stir, how to feel for heat, how to fold cloth by texture alone. Her voice was never soft, but never cruel. Always exact.
Bit by bit, Keal's world widened.
Where once he stayed in his room, now he moved through the house. His sense of smell sharpened—cumin from the kitchen, sandalwood from Cain's study, damp stone after the rain. His fingertips became eyes, tracing the grain of wood, the cool metal of handles, the shifting textures of cloth.
Of course, he fell. He misstepped. He ran into corners and bruised his arms. More than once, he hit the floor hard.
Cain watched every accident in silence.
Then, one evening, he handed the boy a polished walking stick—smooth, light, and perfectly balanced.
"You'll use this," he said. "For two weeks. Then it's gone."
Keal didn't question it. He simply bowed his head.
Time passed, and Keal learned to measure it—not by clocks, but by the rhythms of life. Rhea's footsteps. The scent of breakfast. The sun's warmth fading from certain walls. His internal clock grew precise. Without sight, he told time by habit, sound, and sensation.
Rhea never praised him. She didn't need to.
He was becoming more than capable.
He was becoming aware.
---
Over the next two weeks, Keal surprised Cain. At first, he relied heavily on the walking stick. It was awkward, a necessary crutch for navigating the house. But by the fourth day, he had stopped using it for short distances. He stumbled, yes, but far less often. It was as if he were mapping the space in his mind—slowly building a mental map of his surroundings, one step at a time.
Each time he fell, Keal picked himself up and repeated the process. With each failed attempt, he grew more precise. He began to hesitate before approaching obstacles, reaching out with a steady hand to feel his way, testing the boundaries of his environment. It was slow progress, but it was progress nonetheless.
By the end of the two weeks, the walking stick was no longer needed. Keal could move freely through the mansion, his movements still cautious but fluid. His body had adapted, but Cain knew this was just the tip of the iceberg. True training, the kind that would push him to his limits, had yet to begin.
---
And so, Cain decided it was time to take the next step.
He led Keal to the courtyard one morning, where the men under his command had been training for years. Keal had often heard the sounds—the grunts, the clashing of wood, the rhythmic pounding of feet on the ground—but he had never seen it. Until now.
For the first time, Cain let Keal join the morning training session. It wasn't much, just a few basic drills, but it was a start. At first, Keal stood in the shadows, listening. He could hear their movements, the shifts in the air as they practiced strikes and blocks, the clatter of weapons, and the rapid pace of their footwork. He was silent, absorbing every sound with acute attention.
Cain watched his son closely, noting the intensity with which Keal listened, as though the very air around him were a language waiting to be deciphered.
Keal's training had always been in the dark, but now, it would take on a new dimension—one of sound, instinct, and action. And Cain was ready to push him further.