The days after Rush collapsed settled over Castle Hart like a held breath.
No one mentioned the artifact chamber.
Servants avoided the lower halls, whispering in corners. Guards doubled patrols without orders. The castle's ancient stones hummed with wards that hadn't been touched in years.
Rush noticed.
He noticed the way voices dipped when he walked past. How Albert's gaze lingered longer. How his father's presence — once warm, effortless — now carried a thin edge of vigilance.
On the fourth morning, before breakfast, his father summoned him.
Not to the study.
Not to the training yard.
But to an empty stone hall beneath the west wing — no windows, no banners, no sound. The air felt sealed, as if the room had no intention of letting secrets back out.
"Stand there," his father said, pointing to the center.
Rush obeyed.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then his father moved.
Not toward him — around him.
Silent steps. No rustle of fabric. No shift of air.
Rush tracked too slow. A finger tapped the back of his neck.
"Again," his father murmured.
Rush reset his footing, jaw tight.
They repeated the drill until his legs trembled — not from fatigue, but from the strain of listening for a man who left no noise to catch.
Finally, his father stopped.
"You felt it," he said.
Rush nodded. "I listened for sound. I should've watched for absence."
Approval sparked briefly in his father's eyes.
"Good. You'll learn quickly."
He turned toward the door.
"From today onward, tutors will be assigned to you. History, etiquette, mana theory, languages. Things a noble child is expected to know."
Rush hesitated. "And this?" He gestured at the empty hall.
His father met his gaze.
"This," he said quietly, "is so you survive when knowledge isn't enough."
Rush didn't press. He understood when silence carried answers.
As his father left, Rush felt something else — distant, subtle, watching from within.
Not hostile.
Not kind.
Simply… evaluating.
Later that night, while the castle slept beneath uneasy wards, Rush lay awake staring at the ceiling.
He reached inward — toward the presence.
No whisper.
No warmth.
Just a vast, still quiet.
If you won't speak, he thought, then I'll grow strong enough to understand you myself.
Far below the castle, runes flared as wardstones were reinforced. Training schedules were rewritten. Tutors were summoned.
Something ancient observed.
And waited.
Morning light spilled through the eastern study, catching dust motes in slow orbit. Rush sat straight-backed at a wide oak table, feet barely touching the floor, hands folded properly. He had been warned the lesson mattered.
The door opened without ceremony.
The man who entered was old without being frail. His back was straight, his stride economical, his presence dense enough to make the room feel smaller. Iron-gray hair was tied at his nape; a thin scar ran from temple to jawline.
Rush felt it immediately.
Danger.
"Rush," his father said, remaining near the window. "This is Master Corvin. He will tutor you from today onward."
Corvin's eyes swept over him — not assessing a child, but evaluating potential.
"So this is the heir," he said. "Small."
Rush didn't flinch. "I'm eight."
Corvin paused. Then — unexpectedly — smiled.
"Good. He answers without fear."
His mother sat nearby, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes soft but piercing.
"Master Corvin will begin with fundamentals," she said. "Reading, history, logic, discipline—"
"And observation," Corvin added. "Especially observation."
Rush nodded once.
Inside, that quiet thing stirred — faint, curious.
He ignored it.
Later, when the study was empty and only the two parents remained, warmth evaporated.
Lord Ryanheart stood at the window, watching the distant training grounds. His posture relaxed; his eyes calculating.
"He didn't ask about the artifact," the Lady murmured.
"No," her husband replied. "Which concerns me more."
"You think he remembers something?"
"I don't know," he said. "But something touched him. I've spent a lifetime reading silence. Whatever that was — it wasn't nothing."
The Lady's fingers tightened on her sleeve.
"The relic had no records. No name. No function. Even the royal archives—"
"—were empty," he finished. "Yet it was sealed like a weapon."
He turned.
"Our son was found beside its absence."
Silence pressed between them.
"He's still a child," she whispered. "He's brilliant and kind, but still just a child."
"I know." His voice softened, barely. "That's why we give him knowledge before power."
Her eyes widened. "You intend to—?"
"I won't throw him into shadows," he said. "Not yet. But he will learn how this world truly works. He will learn how to survive it."
Steel whispered.
Rush lunged again. His wooden dagger struck the training post, slipped along its angle, then withdrew before the counterweight snapped toward him.
"Too slow," his father said.
Rush adjusted and tried again. This time the post reacted faster — a hidden blade flicked from the side.
Rush twisted, letting it skim past his ribs by a breath.
"Better."
Sweat slipped down his temple. His breathing stayed even. The courtyard hummed with mana-infused training tools. His body ached, but his eyes were cold and focused.
"Again."
Rush stepped forward—
"Ruuush!"
A child's voice cut the air.
Rush froze. The blade hissed past his throat. His father's hand snapped out, stopping the mechanism in an instant.
Liz stood at the courtyard edge, gripping a wooden sword nearly her size. It dragged behind her as she hurried forward.
"Stop!" she squealed. "I want to try!"
Rush dropped his dagger immediately.
"Liz — don't run in here," he said, moving toward her. "You could've been hurt."
She pouted. "You always do secret things."
"They're not secret," he said gently, crouching. "They're just not for you yet."
"That's what you said last time."
Rush took the sword from her and set it aside, placing his own dagger beside it deliberately.
"This," he said softly, "is dangerous. Even when you think you're being careful."
Liz glanced at the training post, at the blades still glinting.
"…It tried to bite you."
"It did."
"Did it hurt?"
"No. Because I was watching."
She seemed satisfied with that and leaned against him.
Behind them, his father spoke.
"Training ends here."
Rush blinked. "Father—"
"You chose correctly," his father said. "That matters more than finishing a drill."
Rush bowed his head. "Yes."
Liz beamed, triumphant.
As Rush led her back toward the castle, his father remained behind, eyes narrowed.
Not at his son's technique — but at the moment he stopped without hesitation.
Not because he lacked ability.
But because he cared.
An assassin who can stop his blade is far more dangerous than one who cannot.