The years between ten and twelve forged Aras like steel in a smith's furnace—each day hammering him sharper, deadlier. He moved through the world now with the quiet precision of a blade being drawn, his training etching itself into his bones.
Kalen's gift arrived in the form of Varek, a grizzled marksman with a face like weather-beaten leather and eyes that missed nothing. The man smelled of gunpowder and old blood.
"Firepowder grace," Varek grunted, tossing Aras a pistol. The weight nearly wrenched the boy's arm from its socket. "Respect the recoil, or it'll shatter your wrist. Again."
The training yard became a symphony of gunfire. Aras learned to dismantle rifles blindfolded, to judge windage by the sway of distant smoke, to put a bullet through a moving target's eye while sprinting across broken terrain. Varek was merciless, but his lessons stuck like scars.
"Better," the marksman muttered one evening, watching Aras land three consecutive shots in a thumb-sized cluster at fifty paces. "Now do it while I try to gut you."
The knife came flashing. Aras fired.
Varek looked down at the hole in his sleeve, then back at the boy. For the first time, he smiled.
"You've got a killer's instinct, kid. But instinct isn't enough. You need control."
"Then teach me," Aras said, reloading without looking.
Varek's grin widened. "Oh, I plan to."
Talis had always been a shadow, slipping in and out of Aras's life like smoke. But now, the wiry street rat stood firm, arms crossed, his usual smirk replaced by something sharper.
"You're not doing this alone," Talis said, kicking a rusted gear toward Aras. "I've got stakes in this too."
Aras raised an eyebrow. "Since when?"
"Since always." Talis's voice dropped low. "You think I like watching those bastards in the Consulate trade lives like spare parts? I've got friends in the Warrens. People who disappear if they ask the wrong questions."
A beat of silence. Then Aras nodded. "Fine. But we do this smart. No reckless charges, no grand speeches. We watch. We learn. Then we strike."
Talis grinned, tossing him a small, wicked-looking blade. "Now you're talking my language."
The Academy's entrance exam loomed—a brutal gauntlet of combat, strategy, and endurance. Only the best were chosen. Only the ruthless survived.
Kalen clasped Aras's shoulder the night before, his grip iron. "You've trained for this. But training and battle are two different beasts."
"I know," Aras said.
"No," Kalen corrected. "You don't. Not yet. But you will." He paused, then added, "Whatever happens tomorrow, remember your name."
"Yashira," Aras said automatically.
Kalen shook his head. "No. That's your house. Your name is Aras. And tomorrow, you'll make sure they remember it."
The meal that night was simple—roasted meat, coarse bread, a shared flask of spiced wine. Elira watched Aras with quiet pride, while Talis devoured his portion like a starved hound.
"So," Talis said between bites, "what's the plan after you get into the Academy?"
"First, I survive," Aras said. "Then I learn everything they have to teach. Their tactics, their weaknesses."
"And then?" Elira asked softly.
Aras met her gaze. "Then we adjust."
Talis raised his cup. "I'll drink to that."
Kalen's smile was calm but sure. "Good. Because this is only the beginning."