Nyx stopped a few meters from him, her arms hanging loose, yet her body drawn tight like a bowstring on the verge of release. She glanced at Kaelen's bandaged hands with a mix of scorn and curiosity.
— You're a fool, Valerius — she said quietly. — Malphas wears plate armor forged in hell and blessed by the Inquisition. Do you plan to punch iron until your fingers turn to pulp?
— If I use one of those black blades, I become exactly what he says I am: a sewer rat — Kaelen tightened the last knot of the bandage with his teeth, yanking it hard. The white linen clashed violently with the filth of his clothes. — A gentleman does not hide in the dark. If there is no rightful steel here, then I am the weapon.
Above them, Vespera tightened her grip on the marble balustrade. Kaelen's gesture was a silent insult to her entire organization. She had spent fortunes equipping her people with the finest silenced steel on the continent, and this boy treated her arsenal like refuse.
— He doesn't understand — Vespera murmured to the servant beside her, who trembled under her mistress's icy gaze. — He thinks war is a jousting tournament. Nyx! Show him that the world has no rules for the unarmed!
Nyx didn't wait. She surged forward with a speed Kaelen had never seen on the Academy training fields. She didn't throw a punch; she snapped a side kick aimed straight at his liver.
Kaelen reacted on instinct. He blocked with his forearm, the impact rattling through his bones and into his teeth. Nyx's strength was disproportionate to her size. Before he could counter, she spun, using the momentum to sweep his legs.
Kaelen leapt back, his leather boots thudding into the sand of the courtyard. He settled into the classic Vallenburg infantry pugilist stance: guard high, chin tucked, feet constantly moving.
— At the Academy, we learned that the body is the temple and will is the master — Kaelen hissed, slipping aside from an open-hand strike aimed at his eyes.
— At the Pale Rose, we learn that the body is just a sack of meat that can be punctured — Nyx shot back.
She launched a rapid sequence of attacks—jabs at neck nerves, pressure strikes to joints. Kaelen relied on rigid defense, accepting blows to shoulders and arms to search for an opening.
When Nyx threw a straight punch at his face, Kaelen didn't dodge. He tilted his head, letting the strike glance off the hard ridge of his skull, and at the same instant fired a right cross.
The white-wrapped fist cut through the air like a hammer. Nyx twisted mid-motion to avoid the full impact, but the blow still scraped her shoulder, tearing the black fabric and knocking her back a step.
Vespera leaned forward, eyes alight. She saw blood begin to stain Kaelen's white bandages—his own knuckles split open by the force of the strike.
— He'd rather break his own bones than hold a dagger — Vespera said, a sadistic, intrigued smile returning to her lips. — What a fascinating creature.
Nyx brushed dust from her shoulder, her eyes now lit with a dangerous respect.
— Not bad, cadet. But those white fists will turn red soon enough. Let's see how long your "honor" lasts when fatigue sets in.
The air in the courtyard shifted. The cold respect in Nyx's gaze evaporated, replaced by predatory efficiency. She understood now that Kaelen's "honor" wasn't a phase—it was a shield, and she would have to shatter it to make him useful to Madame.
— You want to play martyr, Valerius? — Nyx hissed. — Then let's see what a martyr looks like when he's chewed apart.
She moved again. This was no longer a fight; it was a technical execution. Nyx no longer aimed for shoulders or torso. She drove a sharp kick into Kaelen's already injured knee, dropping him in an instant. Before he could recover, she hammered him with blows to the kidneys and the base of the skull.
Kaelen tried to strike back, but his arms felt like they were moving through syrup. Nyx dismantled him with ease, slipping past his swings by inches and answering with elbows that split his skin. The white linen on his hands was now soaked crimson—the blood of his face and his burst knuckles.
— Where's your Academy now? — Nyx demanded, smashing a punch into his nose and making him spit blood into the sand. — Where's the King you swore to protect? They threw you away, and you still kiss their boots for "honor"!
She grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head up toward Vespera, who watched with undisguised pleasure. Nyx drove a series of knee strikes into Kaelen's ribs, the sound of cracking bone echoing through the silent courtyard. He was little more than a bloodied punching bag, barely conscious.
The Arsenal of Shame
Nyx delivered one final, contemptuous kick that sent Kaelen flying across the courtyard. He slammed into the wooden rack of the arsenal, knocking several black weapons loose. Cold metal clattered around him—daggers and short swords ringing like an invitation to corruption.
Kaelen lay amid the dark steel, a smear of blood and torn white linen.
From above, Vespera leaned forward, her voice dripping down like poisoned honey.
— Look at you, Kaelen. Look at the state of your "dignity." You're dying in the mud while your sister is being prepared for a monster. — She gestured at the scattered weapons. — Choose one, boy. Take one of those black blades, accept who you are now, and I'll make the pain stop. Choose the shadow, or Nyx will finish breaking you right here. Choose.
Kaelen braced his trembling hands on the ground. Blood dripped from his chin onto the once-white bandages, now filthy. He looked at the assassin's tools—the instruments of Vespera.
Slowly, with superhuman effort, he used the frame of the rack to haul himself upright. His eyes were nearly swollen shut, yet the dark fire within them burned brighter than ever.
He didn't take the short sword. He didn't touch the dagger.
Instead, he raised his right hand. The white bandages, though stained red, were still there, tight around his fist. With a deliberate motion loaded with every ounce of contempt he felt for that place, he extended his middle finger straight at Vespera.
The silence that followed was absolute. Guards in the shadows held their breath. The servant beside Vespera went pale, bracing for her mistress's fury.
Vespera felt the blood rush to her face. The insult wasn't just a gesture—it was a complete rejection of her power. She had rescued him, given him shelter, food, and a chance at vengeance, and he would rather be beaten to death than accept her terms.
— Nyx… — Vespera's voice shook with rage. — Kill him. I don't want this dog in my courtyard anymore. If he wants to die like a gentleman, let him fertilize my garden!
Nyx drew a real knife—a thin, black blade—and advanced with the intent to slit his throat.
She spun the knife between her fingers, fluid and lethal. There was no pleasure in her now, only pragmatic acceptance.
— It was an honor, Valerius — she whispered as she closed in, her guard low, the target barely able to stand. — A shame… I truly saw potential in you. But in Ostrava, those who won't bend, break. And you're too hard for your own good.
She lunged. The blade's tip aimed for the space between collarbone and carotid—the assassin's mercy stroke.
Kaelen didn't move. He didn't reach for a sword behind him; he didn't even glance at the black weapons at his feet. He stood still, chin raised, blood running down his chest, staring into nothingness with a terrible calm. His eyes sought no defense; they sought the end, with the same integrity he had lived by.
Above them, Vespera leaned over the railing, her nails digging into marble. Her eyes burned with anticipation. She expected that at the last second, survival instinct would win—that he would dive for the steel, beg, seize a dagger and prove that, deep down, every man has a price.
Nyx's knife was inches from Kaelen's skin. The wind of the strike already raised the hairs on his neck.
— STOP! — Vespera's scream tore through the courtyard, sharp and laden with frustrated fury.
Nyx froze. The blade nicked Kaelen's neck, drawing a single bead of blood that slid over the white linen at his throat. The archer exhaled slowly and stepped back, sheathing the knife with a dry click.
Vespera was trembling—not with fear, but with a deep disappointment bordering on hatred. She descended the courtyard stairs with heavy steps, her silk dress whispering over blood-stained sand.
— Enough. I've seen enough — she said, stopping two meters from Kaelen, studying him with bitter disdain. — I expected a wolf. Someone who would use any tool to gut Malphas and reclaim what's his. But what I found is… a stubborn corpse.
She turned her back on him, gazing at the high walls of the mansion.
— You won't bend, will you? Not under torture, not under threat of death, not even for love of your sister. You'd rather die as a symbol than live as a victor. That isn't honor, Valerius. It's vanity. A pathetic vanity that will cost your mother and sister their lives.
Kaelen swayed but didn't fall. His words came out as a hoarse whisper, each syllable heavy as lead:
— If I become… what you want… Elara will be saved by a monster. And she already has too many monsters around her. If I die… I'll die as the brother she knew. Not as your shadow.
Vespera let out a humorless laugh.
— Very well. Nyx, take this… "gentleman" back to his hole. Clean him. I won't have my carpets stained with this useless blood. — She glanced over her shoulder at Kaelen one last time. — You want to fight with your fists? Then you will. But don't expect me to smooth your path. Tomorrow, you'll have your first mission. And if you fail, it won't be Nyx's knife that finds you. It will be oblivion.