---
Maxmilian did not take children into the Outer Lands.
He had carved that rule into himself long before Rexor was born—before Aurélia learned how to wait without asking questions, before names and faces began to blur together beneath blood and ash. Long before he understood that rules existed not to be followed forever, but to delay regret.
Children survived by staying away.
He told himself this time was different.
Dawn had barely settled when they left Aurelion. The gates opened with the same iron groan, the same bored knights watching them pass as if danger only existed beyond their walls. Rexor stood at the doorway of the house, wooden sword strapped awkwardly to his back, pretending not to stare.
He failed.
"Don't slow him down," Rexor said, trying to sound casual, eyes fixed forward.
Voryn nodded once.
Maxmilian said nothing.
Before they reached the outer road, Maxmilian stopped.
The market was only half-awake. Merchants were still lifting shutters, muttering about weather and patrols. Steel rang faintly from the smith's corner, where heat already bled into the morning air.
Maxmilian turned toward it.
Voryn followed without question.
The smith looked up as they approached—then frowned slightly at the sight of the boy. "You buying or browsing?"
"Buying," Maxmilian said.
The man's gaze lingered. "For him?"
"Yes."
The smith hesitated, then reached beneath the counter. He didn't pull out decoration or ceremonial steel. What he laid down was plain—short blade, balanced grip, edge clean and honest.
"This isn't a toy," the smith said.
"I know," Maxmilian replied.
He tested the balance once, then placed it in Voryn's hands.
The boy froze.
Not from fear.
From weight.
He adjusted his grip instinctively, fingers finding the balance point without instruction.
Maxmilian paid without bargaining.
As they walked away, Voryn spoke quietly. "I didn't ask."
"I didn't offer," Maxmilian said. "You'll need it."
No explanation followed.
Rexor watched them leave from the doorway.
He didn't look away until they were gone.
---
As ordered stone gave way to scarred earth, the air changed.
It always did.
The Outer Lands welcomed nothing—but they remembered everything. The ground darkened, fractured by old impacts and newer bones. The wind moved wrong here, carrying scents that had no place in memory.
Maxmilian adjusted his pace.
Not for himself.
For the boy walking beside him.
Voryn didn't hesitate. Didn't ask questions. His eyes moved constantly—reading terrain, avoiding unstable ground, skirting places where shadows pooled too deeply. He walked like someone who had learned what mistakes cost.
"You've been here before," Maxmilian said.
Voryn didn't deny it.
They reached the twisted grove by midmorning.
The trees grew wrong—branches bent inward, bark split and blackened, roots breaking the surface like grasping fingers. Fruit hung heavy among them, swollen with unnatural color. Safe to eat. Dangerous to harvest.
Maxmilian stopped before entering.
"You cut only the stem," he said. "Never the branch. Never the bark. You disturb the tree, you disturb what sleeps beneath it."
Voryn listened closely.
"Watch the color," Maxmilian continued. "Too dark, it's rotten. Too pale, it's bait. And never let the juice touch the ground."
Voryn nodded.
Maxmilian demonstrated once—clean cut, careful catch, fruit wrapped immediately in cloth.
"Your turn."
Voryn stepped forward.
He did everything right—until the last fruit.
His grip slipped.
Just slightly.
The fruit struck the ground.
Juice spilled.
The air shifted.
Maxmilian's head snapped up.
"Back," he said.
Too late.
The first demon came low, crawling through roots and bone. Maxmilian struck—once to stagger, twice to wound, third to finish.
Routine.
The second emerged behind him.
Before he could reset—
It dropped.
Voryn stood there, sword still raised.
One strike.
Clean.
Maxmilian felt something cold slide down his spine.
The third demon screeched and charged.
Maxmilian moved to intercept—
Too late.
Voryn stepped forward.
No flourish. No hesitation.
One short motion.
The demon collapsed.
Silence returned.
Too fast.
Maxmilian stared at the bodies longer than necessary. The wounds were precise—not lucky, not desperate. Each blade had found exactly where the creature failed to protect itself.
"…That point," Maxmilian said slowly. "How did you know?"
Voryn didn't look proud.
Didn't look afraid.
"I can see it," he said.
Maxmilian turned to face him. "See what?"
Voryn hesitated.
"…Where it breaks."
Maxmilian looked away first.
"Stay close," he said.
And this time, it wasn't an order.
They harvested the rest without incident.
When they turned back toward Aurelion, their packs were full.
Heavy.
Necessary.
---
They returned before noon.
Rexor saw the sword first.
It leaned against the wall near the hearth—simple, real, unmistakable.
"For him?" Rexor asked.
"Yes," Maxmilian said.
Something tightened in Rexor's chest.
He nodded anyway. "Good. He should train."
That afternoon, Aurélia laid the fruit out in the shop.
Customers came.
Coins passed hands.
A knight stopped.
Picked up a fruit.
Bit into it.
Turned to leave.
"Sir," Voryn said.
The knight paused.
"What?"
Voryn's hands trembled—but he didn't step back. "You haven't paid."
The knight looked down at him slowly.
"This is the repayment for your protection."
Maxmilian had seen it.
Not directly.
He had been on the other side of the shop, speaking with an older woman about bruised fruit—listening, nodding, counting coins by habit rather than thought. But the moment the knight's shadow fell across the counter, Maxmilian's attention had sharpened.
He didn't move.
Didn't intervene.
He watched through the reflection in the glass jars lining the shelf.
He saw the knight take the fruit. Saw him bite into it without asking. Saw the familiar arrogance that came with steel and authority. Maxmilian's hand tightened around the coins he was holding.
Then Voryn spoke.
Not loudly.
Not bravely.
But clearly.
Maxmilian felt something twist in his chest—not fear, not pride. Recognition.
The boy's hands trembled. Maxmilian saw that too. He saw the way Voryn swallowed before speaking again, forcing the words out even as instinct screamed at him to stay silent. This wasn't defiance.
This was necessity.
When the knight answered—repayment for protection—Maxmilian's jaw clenched. He knew that line. Had heard it before. Had paid it before, in ways far more expensive than coin.
Voryn's reply came slower.
Measured.
"…but we already have paid taxes."
Maxmilian exhaled through his nose.
Not relief.
Calculation.
The knight paused. Long enough for Maxmilian to cross the shop if he chose to. Long enough for violence to bloom if pride demanded it.
Maxmilian stayed where he was.
Because this moment wasn't his.
The coin fell.
The sound was small. Insignificant.
But Maxmilian heard it louder than steel.
When the knight left, Maxmilian finally looked up fully.
Voryn stood frozen for a heartbeat longer than necessary—then released the breath he'd been holding, shoulders sagging just a fraction.
Maxmilian turned back to the woman in front of him, finished the transaction, and only then allowed himself to think.
He didn't speak to protect himself, Maxmilian realized.
He spoke to protect what feeds them.
That was different.
That night, Rexor trained longer than usual.
Harder.
Later, he spoke quietly. "Father… one day, can I duel him?"
"One day," Maxmilian said.
But not today.
Because Rexor would walk forward.
And Voryn—
Voryn would walk where light never reached.
---