The heavy iron arrows that had pinned their armor collars to the stone were gone, discarded like useless trinkets. Daker and Seraphina sprinted through the shadows, their breath coming in ragged hitches as they fled toward the rendezvous point where General Valerius waited.
The night had fully claimed the world. The cold moonlight struck the trees and buildings, casting shadows so distorted and dark that they seemed like nocturnal predators crawling along the ground. They moved through the narrow, twisting alleys of the city's edge until the stone gave way to soft earth. They had reached the outskirts.
Daker paused for a heartbeat, looking back. From this distance, the great castle and the sprawling city beneath it shimmered under the moon's silver veil, looking peaceful and untouchable—a stark contrast to the desperation in his chest. Before him lay a vast, open meadow that ended abruptly at the edge of a dense, ancient thicket of trees.
"Daker, there!" Seraphina whispered, pointing toward the dark silhouette of the woods. "General Valerius is waiting for us there. He told me to meet him at the grove. We have to move, now!"
Daker gripped her hand, and together they bolted across the meadow, their boots thumping against the grass until the darkness of the trees swallowed them whole.
The Old Crow
Deep within the grove, bathed in the dappled light of the moon, General Valerius sat upon a jagged rock. Beside him stood a figure cloaked in silence.
"Seraphina," the General said, his voice calm. "Meet my old friend, Khyber."
Seraphina's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. The man before them was a legend of nightmares: a Blind Crow Knight.
"But General..." she stammered, her voice trembling. "He... he is a Blind Crow."
Daker's blood ran cold. Blind Crows. The stories Daki had told him flashed through his mind—warriors of shadow and sacrifice.
Khyber stood up. He wore a helm forged in the likeness of a crow's skull, dark and menacing. Slowly, he reached up and pulled the helmet free. Daker recoiled. Where eyes should have been, there were only deep, hollow pits of withered skin. A jagged, ancient scar tore across his face, running from above his brow down to his shriveled cheek.
"So, Valerius," Khyber's voice was like grinding stones, filled with a terrifying vitality. "This is the whelp you spoke of? This is the one I must break... I mean, train?"
"It is," Valerius replied.
Seraphina turned to the General. "You were right. On our way here, we were ambushed by knights. But someone... something... killed them in a single stroke before we could even see them."
The General let out a low, gravelly laugh. "The one who struck them down was Khyber."
Daker stared at the old man, his mind racing with doubt. This old man? He doesn't look that strong. And Daki said their eyes are ripped out in childhood... but what he did to those knights was impossible. Are all Blind Crows this monstrous?
"Fine, General," Daker said, trying to steady his voice. "I've met him. We'll start the training tomorrow."
Suddenly, a hand like a vice clamped onto Daker's head. Khyber's fingers dug into his skull with agonizing strength.
"Listen to me, boy," Khyber hissed, his sightless face inches from Daker's. "If you want to keep your life, training doesn't start tomorrow. It starts now."
"Let go!" Daker snarled, the pain blooming behind his eyes. "How dare you lay a hand on me!"
Khyber's withered lips curled into a smirk. "What will you do, boy? Strike me? Go on, try."
Enraged, Daker pulled a dagger from his belt and swung with everything he had. But Khyber wasn't there. In a blur of motion that defied age, the old man vanished, reappearing moments later perched high on a tree branch like a predatory bird.
"Such a sluggish pace?" Khyber mocked from above. "At this speed, you won't even live to see the afternoon of the tournament."
Khyber plummeted from the branch. Before Daker could react, the old man's bare hand struck the blade of the dagger. With a sickening snap, the steel shattered into pieces.
Daker stood frozen, staring at the hilt in his hand. If an old, blind crow is this powerful... what is a young one capable of?
The Forest of Snares
"We have no time for your fear," Khyber said, walking toward him. "You have two days. Only two. I cannot teach you how to kill in such a short time, but I can teach you how to survive. If you can simply avoid your opponent's strikes, your chances of living increase. But... if you impress me, perhaps I will show you a few tricks of the trade."
General Valerius nodded. "He is yours now, Khyber. I leave his life in your hands."
As the General and Seraphina disappeared into the night, the wind picked up, howling through the grove. The branches rattled against one another with a sound like dry bones knocking together.
"Boy," Khyber said, his voice echoing in the wind. "I have set traps in these woods. Snares that could bring down an elephant. You will run. You will run from one end of this grove to the other and back again. You will keep running until you can do it without a single snare touching you. I will be watching."
Daker didn't wait. He took off, sprinting into the thicket like a madman. The wind roared in his ears, masking the sounds of the forest. Suddenly, a whistle of air reached his ears—something heavy was swinging. Before he could pivot, a massive fallen log smashed into his chest, sending him flying backward into the dirt.
Khyber appeared beside him instantly. "You failed. Get up. Go back and start again."
Daker gritted his teeth and returned to the start. He focused, trying to outsmart the woods. I'll mark the spots, he thought with a smirk. Next time, I'll know exactly where they are.
He accelerated, his heart thumping. The log is coming up... now! He ducked, but as his foot hit the ground, a hidden rope snapped tight around his ankle. In the blink of an eye, he was yanked upward, dangling helplessly upside down from a high branch.
Khyber walked beneath him and casually sliced the rope. Daker hit the ground hard, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze.
"Go to sleep, boy," Khyber said dismissively. "Go to sleep now, so you can sleep forever in two days." He turned and walked away.
"No," Daker hissed, dragging himself up. "I'm not stopping."
The Limit of Endurance
The night became a blur of pain. Every time Daker thought he had figured out the rhythm, a new trap found him. He dodged a swinging log only to have a wooden beam strike him across the back, slamming him into a tree.
He looked up, coughing blood, and saw Khyber sitting on a branch above him. The old man held up a thumb, then slowly turned it down. Again.
Daker realized the traps were placed every thousand meters. He ran until his lungs burned like fire, until his vision blurred. His nose was broken, bleeding freely down his chin. His clothes were shredded, and his body was a map of bruises and welts.
As the first golden rays of the sun pierced the canopy, Daker stood at the far edge of the grove. He was leaning on a thick branch just to stay upright. He looked back at the path behind him, unable to believe he had finally made it through the final gauntlet.
Groaning in agony, he limped toward a small, makeshift hut where Khyber waited. Daker's vision swam. The world turned grey, and as his knees buckled, he felt a pair of strong arms catch him before he hit the dirt.
The Philosophy of the Blind
When Daker finally opened his eyes, he was lying on a bed of dry grass inside the hut. A cool, damp cloth rested on his forehead.
"Easy, boy," Khyber said, sitting nearby.
"Where... where am I?" Daker muttered.
"I built this hut while you were playing in the woods," Khyber replied. "And I must say, I am impressed. You completed the task. Now, if something lunges at you from the dark, your body will move before your mind even knows why."
"Am I... am I a master now?"
Khyber laughed. "One night doesn't make a master. Rest. I'll catch something for us to eat, then the real work begins."
A short while later, Khyber returned with a string of fish. Daker watched in awe as the blind man cleaned and gutted them with surgical precision, then directed Daker to start a fire. As the fish sizzled on a makeshift steel grate, the aroma filled the hut, making Daker's stomach growl fiercely.
They ate in silence for a moment before Daker spoke. "Khyber... is that your real name?"
"No," the old man said, staring into a fire he could not see. "It was given to me when I was young. I fought many battles—against men and monsters alike. Because of my nature and the way I hunted, the Blind Crows gave me that name. My birth name was Michael. But Michael died a long time ago."
"So... do you guard the Walls of Justice?"
"Not anymore," Khyber replied. "Now, I only train those who are willing to give everything to become a Crow."
Daker hesitated, then asked the question that had been burning in his mind. "Why do they take your eyes? Why the sacrifice?"
Khyber's expression turned solemn. "To be a Blind Crow is to understand sacrifice. An eye is a window to the world, but it is also a distraction. A man with eyes relies on what he sees—the beauty, the fear, the glitter of a blade. But by removing the eyes, we force the soul to rely on the nose and the ears."
He leaned forward. "Everything in this world has a scent and a sound. When you lose one sense, the others become a thousand times sharper. A true warrior cannot rely on sight alone, for sight can be deceived by shadows and illusions. We lose the world of light to gain a world of truth."
Khyber stood up and walked to the door of the hut. He turned his head slightly, his sightless "gaze" fixing on Daker.
"Finish your meal and meet me outside. We have very little time left, and the tournament does not wait for slow boys. Do not be late."
With that, the old crow stepped out into the morning light, leaving Daker alone with his thoughts and his pain.
[Chapter End]