chapter 14: blades in the dark
1192 Words
The fire burned low, casting faint orange flickers across the hollow where Cael lay restless. Sleep would not come. Every time he closed his eyes, the deer’s cry echoed in his ears. The way its legs kicked weakly, the blood bubbling from its side—it replayed again and again, a cruel reminder of what his hands had done.
And yet, beneath the horror, there was something else he could not ignore: a pulse of exhilaration.
He had hunted. He had killed. He had survived.
The boy who had once trembled at the rustle of leaves was gone. In his place stood someone who had tasted blood—and, despite his revulsion, wanted to know what more he could do.
---
Rowan appeared before dawn, as always. The man seemed to move with the forest itself, silent and unannounced.
“You didn’t sleep,” he said flatly.
Cael shook his head. “I kept hearing it. The sound.”
Rowan crouched near the fire, tossing a stick into the embers. “Good. Never forget the sound of what you kill. If it stops haunting you, you’ve lost part of your soul.”
Cael wasn’t sure if that was a warning or a curse.
Rowan’s gaze shifted, sharp as a hawk’s. “Yesterday, you learned to kill beasts. Today, you learn to face something worse.”
Cael’s brow furrowed. “Worse?”
“Men.”
The word hung heavy between them.
---
Rowan led him into the deeper woods, to a grove where the trees grew sparse and the ground opened into a clearing. A fallen log stretched across the space, its bark stripped away to reveal pale wood.
On it lay weapons.
Cael froze.
There were knives of varying lengths, blades chipped and worn but deadly sharp. A rusted short sword. A pair of axes, their heads dulled but still dangerous. And a long, thin staff smoothed by years of use.
Rowan gestured to the array. “Choose.”
Cael’s hands hovered uncertainly. “For what?”
“For learning to fight. For learning to kill something that thinks, plans, and strikes back.”
Cael’s breath caught. He had always known the forest’s dangers—wolves, bears, snakes. But Rowan was reminding him of another truth: men were predators too.
He reached for the sword, its hilt cold and heavy.
Rowan’s voice cut him down. “Too eager. That blade will betray you.”
“What do you mean?”
Rowan picked up the sword himself, swinging it once. The metal rang dully. “This is a knight’s toy. Heavy, clumsy. It will wear you down faster than it kills. You’re not ready for such arrogance.”
Cael’s pride stung. He set the sword down reluctantly.
“Again,” Rowan said.
His eyes fell on the knives. They looked simple, almost unimpressive. But their edges gleamed. Slowly, he picked one up, its weight sitting comfortably in his hand.
Rowan’s lips twitched—the closest thing Cael had ever seen to approval. “Better. Knives don’t promise glory. They promise survival.”
---
Rowan moved into the clearing, pulling a second blade from his belt. He tossed it into the air once, catching it without looking.
“Attack me.”
Cael blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. Attack.”
His stomach knotted. He gripped the knife tighter. “But you’ll—”
Rowan’s eyes were ice. “Hesitate, and you die. That’s the rule. Now move.”
Cael swallowed hard, then lunged clumsily, slashing at Rowan’s side.
In a blur, Rowan sidestepped. His knife tapped against Cael’s ribs. “Dead.”
Cael spun, slashing again. This time Rowan parried, the clash of steel sharp in the air. Rowan shoved him back with a single hand, sending him stumbling.
“Too slow. Too obvious. You telegraph every strike.”
Frustration boiled in Cael’s chest. He rushed forward, striking wildly. Rowan’s blade danced, knocking aside each blow. Then, faster than Cael could see, Rowan twisted his wrist and sent Cael’s knife flying into the dirt.
The flat of Rowan’s blade pressed against Cael’s throat.
“Dead again.”
Cael stood panting, his pride burning hotter than his lungs. “It’s not fair. You’ve been fighting your whole life. I’ve barely started.”
Rowan stepped back, sheathing his knife. “Then learn faster. The forest doesn’t pity the weak, and neither will your enemies.”
---
The lessons went on. Again and again, Rowan forced him to strike, to parry, to defend. Every failure ended the same way: with Cael on the ground, blade at his throat, Rowan’s voice reminding him he was “dead.”
But Cael refused to quit.
By midday, sweat drenched his shirt, his arms trembling from exhaustion. His knuckles were raw, his forearms nicked by shallow cuts. Yet he kept coming back, knife in hand, lungs burning, heart screaming.
Rowan’s expression never changed. He moved with the same detached precision, correcting Cael only through pain. A strike to the wrist when Cael dropped his guard. A boot to the chest when he overextended. A blade grazing his cheek when he hesitated.
Finally, Rowan barked, “Enough.”
Cael collapsed onto the dirt, chest heaving.
Rowan stood over him, arms crossed. “You lasted longer than I expected. That’s something.”
Cael’s eyes narrowed. “But I still lost.”
“You’ll keep losing. Until the day you don’t. And on that day, someone else will be the one bleeding.”
---
As they rested, Rowan sharpened his blade with a small stone. The rhythmic scrape filled the silence.
Cael finally spoke. “Have you… killed many men?”
Rowan’s hand stilled. His eyes darkened, far away. “More than I wanted. Fewer than I should have.”
The cryptic words sat heavy between them. Cael wanted to ask more, but Rowan’s expression warned him not to.
Instead, Rowan shifted the topic. “There’s another lesson you need. Fear.”
Cael frowned. “Fear?”
Rowan nodded. “Steel is useless if your hand shakes too much to use it. Men die not because they’re weaker, but because they let fear rule them.”
Cael thought back to the deer, to how his hands had trembled. To the way his heart had screamed at him to stop.
“I was afraid yesterday,” he admitted softly.
Rowan’s eyes pinned him. “Good. Fear means you’re alive. But the moment you let it master you—you’re already dead.”
---
That night, back at the hollow, Cael lay staring into the fire. His muscles ached, his cuts stung, and his pride was bruised.
But beneath all of it, he felt something new: determination.
The knife lay beside him, its edge catching the firelight. It wasn’t just a tool anymore. It was a promise.
One day, he swore, Rowan would not be the one pressing a blade to his throat.
One day, he would be ready.
And when that day came, no man—wolf, bandit, or king—would take his life so easily.
For the first time, Prince Cael wasn’t just surviving. He was learning how to fight back.
- Writer
