Morning arrived quietly over the orphanage.
Grey clouds hung low over the city, turning the sunlight into a dull silver glow that seeped through the cracked window of Arin's room.
The world outside felt strangely still.
No shouting vendors.
No bustling carts.
Just the distant murmur of the city slowly waking.
Arin sat on the edge of his bed.
His right arm was wrapped tightly in a white bandage and held in place by a sling across his chest.
Captain Dorian had taken them to the City Watch infirmary during the night before bringing them safely back to the orphanage.
The bone had been set during the night at the City Watch infirmary, and the dull ache still pulsed beneath the cloth.
In front of him, resting on the bed, lay a wooden crate.
Inside it sat the thick mechanical doll book left behind by his mother.
But Arin wasn't reading.
His gaze was elsewhere.
In his left hand he held a small dagger.
The blade slid halfway out of its sheath as he turned it slowly under the pale morning light. It was the first time Arin had ever unsheathed the dagger.
A matte black blade with a polished silver hilt engraved with delicate craftsmanship.
Thin inscriptions ran along both sides of the metal.
Strange symbols.
Runes.
Symbols he had never seen before.
Tomas sat sideways on a wooden chair near the cracked window. His chin rested against his palm as he stared outside.
The glass still carried the spiderweb fracture from when Arin had accidentally struck it days earlier.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn't need to.
The memories of the night still lingered between them.
The blood.
The escape.
The moment Lyra had pulled the trigger.
The quiet knock on the door broke the silence.
Before either of them could answer, the door opened.
Martha stepped inside.
Behind her stood Captain Dorian Halborn.
And with them—
A woman neither of the boys had seen before.
She was tall.
Graceful.
Her dark bluish hair fell straight down her back, contrasting with pale skin and striking black eyes.
Her features were delicate yet confident, and beneath her lower lip rested a small birthmark that made her expression oddly memorable.
Her lips were painted with a darker shade of crimson.
Around her neck hung a silver locket.
It was shaped like a hexagon, and faint inscriptions circled its surface.
The symbol of the Nameless Almighty All-Father.
The highest god worshipped by the Church.
Martha cleared her throat gently.
"Tomas, Arin."
She stepped forward.
"I'd like you to meet Sister Elowen."
The nun inclined her head slightly.
Captain Halborn folded his arms behind his back.
"She was informed of last night's incident," Martha continued. "The Church sent her to help make sure none of you suffered lasting harm."
Tomas straightened slightly.
Arin quietly slid the dagger back into its sheath.
Just as Martha spoke again.
"Let's move to the dining hall," she said gently. "Lyra should be there already."
The Dining Hall
The orphanage dining hall was quiet that morning.
Most of the younger children had already finished eating and gone to the ground behind the orphanage.
The long wooden tables sat mostly empty.
Lyra waited near the far end of the hall.
She looked physically unharmed.
But her eyes carried a tiredness that hadn't been there before.
When Arin and Tomas entered, she gave them a small nod.
Sister Elowen gestured toward the bench.
"Please take a seat, all of you."
The three children obeyed.
Martha and Captain Halborn moved to the opposite side of the room, giving the nun space while quietly observing.
Sister Elowen approached Lyra first.
Her fingers glowed faintly with a soft green light as she placed a hand gently on the girl's shoulder.
Her eyes closed.
Mana flowed.
The air hummed softly.
After a moment she opened them again.
"No physical injury," she said calmly.
"But there is emotional strain."
She whispered a short divine chant.
The green glow deepened.
A gentle warmth spread through Lyra's body.
The girl's tense shoulders slowly relaxed.
"This will help ease the trauma," Elowen said softly.
Lyra nodded quietly.
Next, the nun turned toward Tomas.
She gently lifted his chin, examining the bruise along his jaw.
"Mmm."
A faint pulse of green light flowed from her fingers.
The swelling faded almost instantly.
"Nothing serious."
Tomas blinked.
"…that was fast."
Elowen smiled faintly.
Then she turned toward Arin.
But before she could speak—
Her eyes froze.
Arin had unconsciously drawn the dagger again.
The black blade gleamed faintly under the lantern light.
The runes carved into the metal shimmered softly.
For a moment the nun simply stared.
Her eyes widened.
"Would you mind telling me…where did you get that?"
Arin looked down at the dagger.
"My father's."
Her voice grew sharper.
"What was your father's name?"
Arin hesitated only briefly.
"Lord Kael Valcrest."
The room fell silent.
Across the table, Captain Halborn straightened.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"…Kael Valcrest," he repeated quietly.
Arin noticed the reaction.
Halborn leaned against the table. The hairs along his arms slowly rose, as if a cold wind had brushed past him.
"The Stormblade of the Northern War."
Tomas blinked.
Lyra looked confused.
But Sister Elowen nodded slowly.
"That explains it."
She turned toward Arin.
"You may not realize what you're holding."
She extended her hand.
"May I?"
Arin handed her the dagger.
The nun studied the blade carefully.
"These are powerful holy runes," she said quietly.
"Not something the Church teaches publicly."
She lifted the dagger slightly.
"This weapon was given to your father by the High Sanctum itself."
She gestured toward Martha.
"May I have a glass?"
A moment later Martha returned with an empty cup.
Elowen held the dagger over it.
Then she poured a thin stream of mana into the blade.
A soft neon green glow appeared along the runes.
Water formed along the edge of the metal.
Clear.
Sparkling.
Drops fell into the cup.
Tiny specks of light shimmered inside the liquid.
"Holy water," she said.
She handed the cup to Arin.
"Drink."
He hesitated for only a moment.
Then he drank.
Almost instantly—
A strange sensation spread through his arm.
The broken bone began to itch.
Then heat spread through his chest and shoulder.
The pain vanished.
Within moments the bone had already knit itself back together.
Arin flexed his hand slowly.
The sling slipped off his shoulder.
Tomas stared.
"You're kidding."
Sister Elowen returned the dagger to him.
"This relic has a name."
She looked at the blade with quiet respect.
"Sanctis Aquila."
"The Holy Wing."
"It was awarded to your father in the midst of the last war between the Kingdom of Valerion and the northern empire of Draekvar."
She met Arin's gaze.
"This dagger can produce holy water when fueled with mana."
"It can also cut through dark magic."
Captain Halborn nodded quietly.
"Your father used it against the shadow cult during the Battle of Blackridge."
Arin stared at the blade.
He hadn't known.
Not any of it.
Elowen watched Arin flex his newly healed arm.
"Remember this," she added quietly.
"The water does not only close wounds."
"Poison, exhaustion, corruption… anything that disturbs the natural state of the body will be washed away."
She gave a faint smile.
"For someone determined enough to push himself beyond his limits…"
Her eyes studied Arin carefully.
"For warriors… that can be both a blessing and a temptation."
Elowen lowered her voice slightly.
"You should keep this weapon hidden."
"These runes are not meant for common eyes."
She stepped back.
"But it seems fate has already begun moving around you, Arin Valcrest."
The boy slowly closed the dagger's sheath.
For the first time—
He wondered what kind of life his father had truly lived.
Captain Halborn had remained silent the entire time.
But now he spoke.
Quietly.
Almost as if an old memory had surfaced.
"Lord Kael Valcrest…"
His gaze lingered on the dagger in Arin's hand.
"The Stormblade of the Northern War."
The room grew still.
Tomas slowly turned toward Arin.
Lyra stared.
Arin didn't move.
Halborn continued, his voice steady but carrying the weight of years.
"The northern frontier is filled with mountain passes. Narrow stone corridors carved between cliffs and glaciers."
He folded his arms slowly.
"Any army marching south from Draekvar has only a handful of routes they can take."
His eyes shifted toward Arin.
"Your father had gone there on a scouting mission."
"With only a small group of soldiers."
A pause.
"They walked straight into an ambush."
Tomas leaned forward slightly.
Lyra listened without blinking.
"One of the riders managed to break through the encirclement," Halborn said quietly.
"He rode south to warn the main force."
"But Lord Kael Valcrest…"
His voice lowered.
"…did not retreat."
"They were barely a handful of men."
"Against an entire northern advance force."
Halborn exhaled slowly.
"One by one, his soldiers fell."
"But Lord Kael Valcrest held the pass."
"Three days."
"Three nights."
His gaze hardened slightly.
"Every assault they sent… he drove back."
"Steel against steel."
"Wave after wave."
"And when reinforcements finally arrived…"
Halborn shook his head faintly.
"…the enemy advance had already been broken."
Silence filled the room.
"That was the day the soldiers started calling him Stormblade."
Even Martha seemed stunned.
Halborn's voice softened again.
"Lord Kael Valcrest survived that battle."
"For years afterward he remained one of Valerion's greatest warriors."
A brief pause followed.
Then he added quietly,
"But men like Lord Kael Valcrest…"
"…rarely fall in an honest battle."
No one spoke.
Arin slowly lowered his gaze to the dagger in his hand.
The weight of his father's name felt heavier than the blade itself.