THE DARK PRINCE

ASHER SHAW

Episodes 3&4

Asher Shaw

An elderly gentleman meticulously selected five pieces of wood from a carefully arranged pile and commenced preparations for a fire. He then called out, "Ash!" A voice promptly responded from the hut behind him, "Coming!" The hut, constructed from wood, exhibited a brownish hue. Emerging from the hut was a man holding a machete. As he approached the elderly man, his exceptionally fair skin seemed to radiate under the sun's reflection. His long black hair, styled in a manner reminiscent of a woman's, complemented his strikingly grey eyes. He exuded an aura that was not typical of an ordinary human. Suddenly, he smiled and raised the machete, saying, "Look, Uncle Rald, I have found the machete."

The elderly man, turning to face Ash, revealed himself to be an older version of Gerald Shaw. His hair had turned white, and he appeared slightly stooped, likely due to the burdens of time. With a gentle smile, he remarked, "I knew you would find it. Bring it closer and use it to divide these woods." Ash, eager to comply, proceeded as instructed. However, it was evident that his aura and appearance did not align with his personality, as if two distinct souls shared one body. Uncle Rald continued to observe him with a weary smile before returning his attention to the fire.

Narrator's Perspective

It has been twenty-nine years since the passing of Susan Shaw and Ryan Shaw. Do not be surprised, as Susan hailed from a powerful family that governs the entire supernatural realm; thus, she cannot be married out. The man can only be married into the family, ensuring their surname endures for centuries. Since her passing, Gerald raised Asher as his own. He cremated her body and scattered her ashes in the ocean, as was customary. However, he kept the necklace containing her powers in a very secluded location, which he could barely recall. Asher, Susan's son, is now twenty-nine years old, while Gerald is sixty-six years old. They have taken residence in the countryside as it is no longer safe for them in the city, with the Shaws seeking them. Fortunately, they have remained safe all these years, gathering wood, cooking in the woods, washing by the riverside, and learning new skills. Gerald had taught him self-defense, anticipating the challenges of the future. However, since turning fifty, he ceased teaching Asher, merely observing as Asher became a skilled fighter.

Asher was shirtless, wearing only shorts that appeared ragged but manageable. He was breathing heavily, and his muscles contracted as beads of sweat trickled down his chest and face, making him appear undeniably attractive. He bounced and delivered countless punches against the hard tree, two by two, his hair moving rhythmically. Then, he paused and walked to the table, gulping down the water from a bowl. His Adam's apple moved slowly, while a pair of beautiful eyes watched him. A female voice then said, "Keshai, we shouldn't be doing this. Who's there?" Asher's voice sounded, prompting the two girls to jump and flee immediately. Asher merely smiled and returned to the tree, but before he could punch it, Uncle Rald emerged, asking, "Do you know those girls?" Asher smiled and approached his Uncle, replying, "Not really, but I often see them around, and I know they seem to follow me." Uncle Rald inquired, "Do you like one of them?" Asher responded as if it were impossible, "God no," he chuckled, "Seriously, Uncle? What are you thinking?" Uncle Rald replied, "I'm thinking of making a duet with you." "What? No, no, that's risky!" Asher exclaimed. Uncle Rald smirked and said, "Are you afraid of losing to me? Is it risky?"

"No, that's not what I mean," Asher replied. Uncle Rald maintained his smirk, "Then what?" Asher attempted to speak, but words eluded him, and he simply sighed in defeat. "So what now?" Asher queried. Uncle Rald turned serious within moments and produced a stick he had been holding, "Let's imagine your source of power comes from your neck; then this stick must not touch your neck, or else that will be your demise."

"Whoa, whoa, that's quite extreme—my neck? You're going to kill me with that?" Asher said, gesturing towards the stick. "Young man, I merely suggested we imagine, and you think I would not have ended your frustrating existence if I wished to do so?" Uncle Rald retorted with a tut of frustration. "Okay? Let's proceed. All I have to do is prevent that stick from touching my neck, yes?" Asher inquired. "Yes, precisely!" replied Uncle Rald.

The ground was cold beneath Asher’s bare feet. He felt it through his bones steady, unlike the storm inside his chest. Across from him stood Rald. Not advancing. Not retreating. Just waiting, his stick held loosely at his side, angled downward, harmless at first glance. That calm unsettled Asher more than any aggressive stance ever could. Years of training lived in the space between them. Every correction. Every punishment. Every quiet nod of approval that meant more than praise. Rald broke the silence. “You know why this fight matters.” Asher swallowed. “Because you won’t go easy.” “No,” Uncle Rald said. “Because I won’t save you.” That landed harder than any blow. Rald lifted the stick not threatening, but deliberate. Its tip traced a slow line in the air, stopping well short of Asher’s neck. “That line,” Rald continued, “is your boundary. Lose awareness of it, and you lose yourself.” Asher tightened his fists. “I won’t.” “Then show me.” The fight began.

Asher moved with controlled aggression, knees bent, shoulders loose, weight forward. He opened with a probing strike, testing Rald’s reaction time. Rald stepped aside with minimal effort, rotating his hips just enough to let the attack pass. Asher followed immediately, chaining strikes, midsection, thigh, shoulder, each one precise, trained, intentional. His footwork was clean, angles sharp. He had learned well. Rald blocked without force. His stick met Asher’s attacks not with resistance, but redirection. Each parry guided the energy away, collapsing Asher’s angles before they could become threats. “You’re stronger than before,” Rald said, parrying another strike. “But you’re still chasing control.” That stung.

Asher surged forward, increasing pressure. He shortened the distance, forcing close-range engagement, where reaction time mattered more than planning. His breathing sharpened. Focus Uncle Rald allowed it. For a moment, Asher thought, He had gotten him. Then Uncle Rald shifted his grip. The stick rotated in his hand, changing leverage. In a single motion, he trapped Asher’s arm, stepped inside his guard, and raised the stick, Stopping it two fingers’ width from Asher’s neck. Asher froze. Every nerve screamed. Rald didn’t touch him. Didn’t threaten further. He simply held the position, unwavering. “You felt that,” Rald said quietly. “That fear? That hesitation?” Asher clenched his jaw. “I didn’t break.” “No,” Rald replied. “But you panicked.”

Rald withdrew, giving space again. Asher exhaled sharply. Pride burned in his chest. He attacked again, but this time smarter. He feinted high, attacked low, forced Rald to move. His timing improved. His breathing steadied. He adapted. Good. But Rald had already adapted years ago. Each time Asher adjusted, Rald countered, not immediately, but a beat later, letting Asher believe he was gaining ground. Letting confidence rise. Then Rald punished the smallest errors. A misaligned foot. A dropped shoulder. A moment where Asher forgot the line protecting his neck. Again and again, Rald’s stick hovered near that forbidden point, not touching, never touching, but always reminding. Asher’s frustration grew. His movements tightened. Speed replaced precision. “You’re fighting me now,” Uncle Rald said, deflecting a rushed strike. “Not yourself.” Asher shouted and lunged.

That was the mistake. Rald stepped into the attack. His stick slid along Asher’s arm, twisted his wrist, and tore the weapon from his grasp. In the same motion, Rald swept Asher’s legs and sent him crashing to the ground. Dust rose. Asher pushed himself up, only to stop. Rald stood over him. Calm. Steady. The stick hovered inches from Asher’s neck. Still not touching. Asher’s chest heaved. Sweat dripped into the dirt. His hands trembled, not from pain, but realization. Rald lowered the stick. “Skill without restraint is just violence,” he said. “And violence gets you killed.” Asher bowed his head, eyes burning, not with defeat, but with understanding. “I wanted to surpass you,” Asher admitted quietly. Rald’s voice softened. “You will. But not today.” He turned away, ending the fight. Asher remained kneeling long after, no longer angry, no longer proud, just changed. The lesson had cut deeper than any strike ever could.