At first, Noctis kept the kin-boy at arm's length during hunts. The cave's vermin—scuttling crabs with armored shells, blind rats fat from fungi—demanded focus he could barely muster with his diminished core. But the boy's golden eyes betrayed him: glowing with predatory hunger, a wildness too ancient for his small frame, like staring into the abyss of forgotten gods. He's not ready, Noctis thought, pulse quickening. But denying it... that's how beasts stay broken.
He changed tactics. Let the boy watch from the shadows, eyes wide as Noctis demonstrated. A fat cave rat twitched in the gloom; Noctis crouched low, breath silent, then lunged—blade flashing, pinning it in one fluid strike. "See? Quick. Quiet." The kin mimicked the crouch, trembling with excitement, but lunged too soon on the next, sending prey skittering into cracks. Noctis bit back frustration, pride flickering despite himself. Every shared meal—cracked shells yielding salty meat, rat haunches roasted over glowing fungi—shaped the boy. Protein fueled his growth; victories etched lessons deeper than words.
The Echoframe chimed softly with each step, its interface a lifeline in the dark, text scrolling in Noctis's vision like guiding stars.
"Recommend: Supervised hunting. Positive reinforcement for successful mimicry. Kin requires protein and energy to stabilize form and develop power—teach through example and shared risk. Caution: Overexertion risks feral backlash."
By week's end, patterns emerged. The kin recognized basics: crouch low in stone crevices, wait for Noctis's signal, lunge only when he did. Language lagged—grunts and whines over words—but gestures sharpened. Noctis raised a hand to halt; the boy mirrored it precisely, golden eyes locked. After one successful kill, grease-smeared lips parted as the kin tapped his chest, whispering unprompted, "Noctis." Gratitude laced with lingering hunger, a spark of self amid the shadows.
Regressions hit hard, though. Some days, the boy refused food, curling into a ball as nightmares wracked him—form flickering, low whines echoing like distant thunder. Unexplained fears gripped him: a dripping stalactite, the cave's wind-sigh. Noctis learned the rhythm—comfort without crowding. He'd sit nearby, humming old survival tunes from his fractured youth, until the kin crawled close, head in lap, shadows calming to steady breaths.
Inside the cave, every snack or feast transcended mere survival. A haul of cave shrimp sent the boy's aura shimmering faintly, dark edges solidifying, wildness aging into curiosity. Play wove into hunts: chasing pebbles as bait, wrestling harmless fungi clusters. Patience became their forge—risk their fire, hope the fragile alloy.
With each week, the bond deepened, a thread pulling taut. Noctis watched the kin's strength surge: once-feral snarls softened to focused growls, hand signals became instinct, fire-side sits stretched into companionable silence. Rare golden mornings brought surprises—a free laugh bubbling from the boy as sunlight-filter pierced the cave mouth, startling them both with its purity.
The Echoframe tracked it all, clinical yet encouraging:
"Bond Link: Progress 1.7%. Kin metabolic rate: Elevated. Development: On pace for active learning and power gain. Milestone approaching: Verbal expansion."
Noctis absorbed the truth: every week reset the board, every lesson a gamble. From beast to boy, teacher to kin—it carved itself in small, bloodied steps.
The Night the Quiet Broke
Hunting blurred into routine—until the cave's hush shattered one night. The fire burned low, embers casting flickering shadows on damp walls. Noctis sharpened his blade with rhythmic scrapes, the whetstone's rasp a meditation. Nearby, the kin stacked pebbles into wobbly towers, lost in mimicry, golden eyes narrowed in childlike focus.
A distant scrabble pierced the calm—sharp, guttural chatter ricocheting through tunnels. Goblins. Noctis tensed, every muscle coiling. Weeks in this hole, and they remained nightmares: unpredictable swarms, persistent, driven by endless hunger. Their pale eyes glinted like wet stones, twisted bodies hunched under ragged hides, jagged daggers crusted with old blood.
He pressed a finger to the kin's lips—silent—motioning to the narrowest shadows. They crept back, ears straining against the growing clamor: claws on stone, wheezing breaths, high-pitched yips. Two goblins emerged into firelight, then a third—smaller, but no less vicious. No time to flee; the tunnel pinched tight behind.
Noctis shifted his blade grip, gesturing sharply for the kin to stay low. Watch. Don't move. But the boy refused, edging forward on all fours, a low growl rumbling from his chest like gathering storm. Noctis hesitated, heart slamming. He'd seen the kin stalk rats, pounce crabs—but this? Real fangs, real death?
The goblins lunged, screeching a cacophony that shook dust from the ceiling. Noctis met the first mid-leap, steel clanging against its rusted dagger, sparks flying. He twisted, driving his blade into its throat—hot blood sprayed, body crumpling. The second circled, feinting with bony claws.
The third broke off, spotting easy prey: the kin-boy. It charged, smaller frame belying speed, dagger raised for a child's killing stroke. Noctis whirled—too far.
Instinct ignited in the kin. He leapt, a blur of shadow and fury, landing astride the goblin. Hands clawed deep into pale flesh, teeth bared in a primal snarl. The scuffle erupted brutal: dirt exploded, hollow shrieks battered the stone, limbs thrashed in a tangle of rage. Blood slicked the floor, copper tang thick in the air. Noctis froze for a heartbeat, blade dripping—then held back. Let him finish it.
The kin's fingers found the throat. With shocking, unnatural strength, he twisted—crunch of bone, final gurgle. The goblin went limp, eyes glazing vacant. Silence crashed back, broken only by ragged breaths.
The kin stared at his victim, chest heaving, hands trembling slick with gore. His shadow-form shimmered violently, primal force rippling beneath skin—power awakened, raw and unchecked. Noctis knelt slowly, pulse thunderous, torn between pride and dread. First blood. Too soon?
Golden eyes lifted, mouth parted in shock. He shouldn't grasp it yet—the weight of killing, the stain—but it pressed down, heavy as chains. Shame flickered, warring with wild pride, a fracture in his newborn soul mirroring Noctis's own buried scars: first kills, endless wars, the numb aftermath.
Noctis extended a hand, steady despite his shake. The kin grasped it, clinging white-knuckled, body quaking. The Echoframe chimed, urgent glow cutting the dark:
"Alert: Kin has performed first combat victory. Status: Basic predation complete. Emotional feedback: Confusion (High), exhilaration (Moderate), distress (Elevated). Recommend: Affirm survival, provide comfort, correct impulsivity as needed. Bond Link: +2.1%."
That night, as silence reclaimed the cave, Noctis drew the kin close, arm around shuddering shoulders. He wiped bloodied hands with his cloak, whispering truths forged in his own darkness: "Danger comes hungry. Strength protects. But sorrow follows—carry it light." The kin listened, staring at stained palms, then rasped awkwardly, echoing fragments:
"Safe… Noctis… strong."
The words hung, a bridge over the abyss. In the fire's dying glow, teacher and kin huddled closer—hard-won, unbreakable.