When I opened my eyes, for a moment I didn't recognize where I was. The soft light coming through the window bathed the room in a comforting warmth, and it took a few seconds for me to realize: I was in my own room.
It seemed bigger than I remembered — spacious, clean, with the curtains fluttering in the breeze that entered. There were two tall chairs pushed against the wall, a dark red desk in the corner, and my bed, soft and covered in freshly changed white sheets. The window in front of me was open, and the distant sound of the castle echoed as a reminder that the world outside was still turning, even though everything inside me felt frozen.
That's when the wind brought me a sweet and familiar scent: fresh pancakes. My stomach churned instantly, hungry. The aroma hit me almost cruelly — how long had it been since I'd eaten properly? How long had I been unconscious?
— Benta? — I murmured, my voice barely a whisper.
The door creaked open suddenly. Benta burst in like a whirlwind. Her face, usually so composed, was tense. She wore the maid's uniform and held a small silver bowl in her hands. The smell of seasoned, well-cooked meat escaped from it like a promise.
— How are you? Feeling better? — she asked, already walking toward me. Her brow furrowed as she set the bowl down on the little table beside the bed. Then she pressed her palm to my forehead. Her touch was cool, comforting.
— It's not as hot... good. Now drink the soup. You're too weak. Your father will be back in a week.
Her words hit me like a punch. My throat went dry and my body stiffened. I knew my father. Knew him all too well.
Rillen wasn't a man of affection. In the eyes of others, he was an unshakable, cruel, cold-blooded force. The mere mention of his name made servants shudder and peasants fall silent. Inside our own family, he was worse than a storm: unpredictable, relentless. My brothers... they weren't alive anymore. My father killed them with his own hands, then took their wives as concubines and solidified his hold over the castle. All in the name of his quest for power.
He wanted to build an army — not a regular army, but one that could crush nations, founded on fear, obedience, and blind discipline. And, of course, ambition. Rillen was never satisfied with what he had. To him, everything was insufficient.
The peasants whispered about him. They called him a tyrant, insidious, a monster. And maybe those were all accurate adjectives. But for some reason I still don't fully understand, he was different with me.
Since I was born, he treated me with a reserved kindness — harsh, yes, but real. They said it was because he had truly loved my mother. Truly loved her. And even after her death, something of that love survived in me. That was why I held the highest position among all his children. That was why he gave me what I wanted, no matter how absurd it seemed.
And now… he was coming back. He had set aside a day — an entire day — to spend with me. That made me uneasy. Nervous. Like something was about to happen, and I didn't know what.
Benta seemed to notice my silence. She sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her rough hands over her face before looking at me again.
— Remember, Zaatar — she said, with a heavy look. — No matter what happens. As the future leader of this family, you need to think twice before you act. Always. And survive. Survive at all costs. There's no room for regret after death.
I stared at her, unsure what to say. The soup was still steaming beside me, but suddenly hunger felt like a distant thought.
I knew she was right. I also knew that from now on, everything would change.
— I will — I whispered, nodding firmly, even though my body was still weak.
A strange wave of heat stirred inside me, starting in my lower abdomen and rising up to my belly button like an underground river of energy. It was comforting and, at the same time, painful. Every part of my body felt heavier than I remembered. As if I were trying to move using muscles that no longer belonged only to me. Something was different.
After swallowing the last spoonful of soup, I set the bowl aside and closed my eyes, feeling the warmth spread slowly, pulsing.
— Your father gave you a gift — Benta said suddenly.
— Hm? — I opened my eyes just enough to see her as a shadow beside the bed.
— A book.
That woke me up immediately. My eyes widened, the fatigue dissolving like ice in the sun. Benta was holding the book with both hands, as if it were a sacred object. And, to me, it was. She knew that.
Since I was little, books had always been my only true source of excitement. Toys stopped interesting me when I was barely two years old. Childish games not long after. But books… oh, books still had the power to pull me out of reality, to make me feel alive.
— What's it about? — I asked, already reaching for it.
— A merchant came to town — she explained. — The book cost twenty silver coins. The baron had it delivered to you. I don't know what it's about, just that it was expensive.
My hands hesitated for a moment. Twenty silver coins? That was an absurd amount. Enough to feed a peasant family for two decades. My allowance was just one coin a month. Why would my father spend so much... on a gift?
— Merchants bring books here? — I asked, carefully opening the volume, as if touching a relic.
— Sometimes — she replied, sitting down again on the edge of the bed, watching my reaction carefully.
— Keep an eye on this for me — I asked, more excited than I expected to be. — I have some savings. If there are more like this... I want them.
I had never imagined books like this — true treasures — could come so close. This town always felt so far from everything. Stagnant. But maybe… maybe not anymore.
For the first time in a long while, I felt like something rare had entered that house. And coming from him, my father... well, he wasn't good with words. I always knew that. Maybe this was his way of trying to connect. And, if it was, I wouldn't turn it down.
On the first page, written in the elegant, slightly imperfect script of the Imperial Krelala language, was the title:
— The King of Arms.
Typical of my father. Anything involving strength, strategy, or military power fascinated him. If it could be used in war, even better. But I didn't dislike it. Somehow… it intrigued me too.
The narrative began with the story of an ancient weapon: the bow. It was described as an old, noble art. Something easy to start, but hard to master. The phrase sounded almost like a challenge.
The author explained that anyone, even with no experience, could shoot an arrow upon receiving a bow. The body knew what to do, guided by a primal instinct. But mastering the technique… that was another story. It required precision in every movement. Posture, grip, how to notch the arrow, draw the string, push with one arm, pull with the other, anchor, align, breathe, aim… and kill.
Ten movements, said the author. Each broken down into clear steps. And the most fascinating part: they weren't complex movements. They were simple. Simple enough for anyone to learn. What made it difficult was the search for perfection — and how much of yourself you were willing to dedicate to achieving it.
I continued reading, absorbed. The book told stories of ancient battles, of how even the greatest warrior could be taken down by a simple hidden archer. The distance was the true threat. The bow didn't require closeness, nor brute strength — only technique. And precision.
Hours passed without me noticing. When I finally closed the book, my eyes still burned, but my heart… it burned with something different. Something new.
Desire.
I wanted to learn how to use the bow. Not just learn — I wanted to master it. I wanted to feel the weight of the wood in my hands, hear the whisper of the string being released, see the arrow fly like an extension of my will. I wanted to become a master of that silent, elegant weapon. And, maybe deep down, I wanted to follow in the footsteps my father admired so much.
But this time, on my own.