Chapter 12: Family Trauma
Cassian stood motionless in the old man's dull, empty room. This situation—the unconditional love, the sacrifice, the abandonment—was far too similar to his own past. His neighbor hadn't given up on him, and he remembered that time with crystal clarity.
The memory began not with magic or training, but with a simple game.
[FLASHBACK: MANY YEARS AGO]
"Why can't I just win for once?" Little Cassian whined, throwing his deck of cards onto the porch floor in frustration.
The old man chuckled warmly. "Patience, Cassian. That is the first lesson."
"I just want to win!" Little Cassian insisted, pouting.
"What if I let you win the next game?" the old man teased.
"That doesn't count!" Little Cassian yelled, making the old man laugh again.
"Alright, alright." The old man stretched out his hand, offering his own cards.
"Why don't you shuffle these and let's play again?"
"Okay," Little Cassian said, collecting the cards and focusing intently on shuffling the two decks together. He was unusually distracted, and a card slipped from his small grasp.
The old man noticed the error immediately. He slowed the rhythmic stroking of his long beard.
"What's wrong, little one?"
Cassian was exceptionally gifted at the game; his wins were frequent, and his focus, even at a young age, was intense. When he made a mistake like this, his mind was clearly somewhere else. Little Cassian didn't answer, instead focusing on the cards as if they held the solution to his problem.
"Is it your parents again?" the man asked softly.
"No," Little Cassian admitted. "I've gotten used to it, but it still hurts sometimes."
The old man's heart ached for him. He couldn't fathom why Cassian's parents treated such a talented boy so cruelly. He had been forced to shoulder so much pain at such a tender age.
"Don't mind what they say," the old man reassured him. "Only you can decide your future, and only your actions matter."
"I know," Cassian muttered. His gaze drifted to the side, landing on an old spear and shield leaning against the wall. The spear was truly ancient, its metal rusted and pitted. The shield was in the same state: old, dented, and marked with holes. The state of the weapons proved they had seen countless battles.
"What are those?" Little Cassian asked, marveling at the shield. "Are they yours?"
"They are," the old man replied, his voice full of nostalgia.
"That one there is Berguta," he said, pointing to the spear.
"And this is Radjack," he finished, indicating the shield which bore a faded sun design.
"Wow! I didn't know adventurers named their weapons! That is so cool," Little Cassian breathed.
"I'm glad you think so," the old man smiled.
"Those two were the very first weapons I ever bought as an adventurer. I kept them hoping my son might one day want to explore the world and go on adventures. I wanted to give them to him for his first quest."
"So what happened?" Cassian asked, mesmerized.
"My son chose a different path. He became a trader—one of the best. He travels the world, going to kingdoms and cities, and I couldn't be more proud of him."
Little Cassian's excitement vanished, replaced by a look of deep, bitter sadness.
"He's lucky to have you," he said, his face sour, fighting back tears.
The old man saw the pain and already knew what he had to do.
"You know," he said, lowering his voice,
"I was actually planning to give them away to a very special, talented young lad. A boy I'm very sure will rise above all odds and succeed."
Cassian let out a small, bitter scoff. "Lucky him," he said, looking away.
The old man couldn't help but smile at Cassian's obvious longing. He really wanted the shield and spear.
"I was talking about you, Cassian."
Little Cassian's face lit up with a mixture of surprise and pure, unadulterated joy. He couldn't contain it. He stood up instantly and threw his arms around the old man, hugging him tightly.
"Thank you!" Little Cassian cried, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks.
[PRESENT DAY]
Cassian's gaze sharpened, dragged back to the empty room. After that day, the memory continued like a fresh wound.
After that day, my uncle—the same uncle who had always resented me—snooped through my things and found Berguta and Radjack. He publicly accused me of stealing in front of my parents, who stupidly believed him. They immediately went off and sold the weapons, splitting the money among themselves.
A cold, familiar hatred clenched his jaw. I hate them so much more than anything on this earth. I sometimes still pray that their greedy, thoughtless deeds will come back and hit them so hard they'll lose their very lives, I'll burn them all.
The old man had not only given him the weapons, he had given him belief. And that belief, though the weapons were lost, was what he carried now.