The St. Hunter estate was alive with motion. The long driveway shimmered under the morning sun, polished stone glinting, the gates creaking softly as the security detail waved the last car through. Inside, the house smelled faintly of fresh flowers—mirrors of Mirabel's careful arrangements—and the faint lingering aroma of breakfast still clung to the air.
Kaino sat cross-legged on the living room floor, Kaia beside him, both eyes fixed on the front entrance.
"Do you think Papa brought anything for us?" Kaia whispered, fidgeting with her hair.
Kaino's fingers twitched with anticipation. He had imagined the possibilities all week. Toys? Clothes? Or… maybe something else. Something for the kitchen.
The front door opened with a familiar creak.
Keano St. Hunter entered, his tall frame filling the doorway. His dark hair was slightly tousled from travel, but his eyes gleamed—warm, alert, and faintly amused. A leather bag slung over his shoulder, another in his hand.
"Papa!" Kaia leapt forward, arms outstretched.
Kaino scrambled after her, stumbling over his own feet but catching himself before falling.
Keano knelt instantly, scooping Kaia into his arms. "And there's my little critic," he said softly, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. "Have you been giving Mama trouble while I was gone?"
Kaia giggled, squirming. "No! I mean… yes! But only a little!"
Kaino stayed a few steps back, hands folded tightly, watching.
"I brought things for everyone," Keano said, placing the bags down carefully. "Even for you, little man."
Mirabel emerged from the hallway, straightening her blouse and smoothing her hair. Her eyes softened at the sight of her husband, but there was a faint furrow in her brow.
"Keano," she said quietly, "don't tell me you… for him?" She gestured subtly toward Kaino, her voice filled with cautious concern.
Keano's smile was calm. "It's a knife set," he said. "For Kaino. Top-grade steel, balanced for small hands."
Mirabel froze. Memories of the burn flashed before her—painful, searing, unforgettable. Her hand rested on Kaia's shoulder. "You know what happened last time, don't you? I… I don't think he's ready."
Keano set Kaia down gently, kneeling so his eyes met Mirabel's. "I know," he said softly. "I remember. And I promise—he'll never be alone in the kitchen. Not with knives. Not with heat. Not until he's ready."
Mirabel's eyes searched his face. "You mean… you'll watch him?"
"I'll train him," Keano said firmly. "Step by step. If he's not in the kitchen with me, he won't touch knives at all. This is part of the process."
Mirabel exhaled slowly, tension in her shoulders. "And you promise?"
Keano nodded. "I promise."
The gifts were opened in quick succession.
Kaia tore into her package first—a small wooden doll set, intricately painted, each piece almost perfect enough to frame. She squealed in delight, arms full of dolls, spinning in a circle as Kaino watched, jaw tight.
Mirabel's gift was next: a perfume set, delicate bottles shaped like petals, fragrances designed to evoke calm mornings and sunlit gardens. She sniffed each, a small smile tugging at her lips, warmth in her eyes.
Finally, Kaino's package remained.
He stepped forward cautiously, small hands fumbling with the wrapping paper. The contents gleamed under the light: a set of miniature chef knives, each blade sharp and precise, handles perfectly contoured for his small grip.
Kaino's heart thudded. His fingers hovered over the knives, itching to touch, to hold, to test. But he remembered the burn. He remembered the pain. He remembered the lesson.
Keano knelt beside him. "Careful," he said softly. "These are tools, not toys. Do you understand?"
Kaino nodded, tiny hands closing around the smallest knife. The steel felt solid, heavy enough to know it existed, yet perfectly balanced for him.
"Good," Keano said, placing a firm hand over his son's. "Let's practice grip first. Observation only. Motion only. No cutting yet."
Kaino's eyes followed every detail as Keano adjusted his fingers. Thumb placement, grip tension, wrist alignment, elbow angle.
Exactly like Papa, he thought, absorbing each movement.
Later, in the grand kitchen, the staff had been instructed to step aside. Chefs lingered silently at the edges, cleaning or preparing ingredients under Keano's watchful eye, but their hands stayed away from Kaino.
"Today," Keano said, voice calm but firm, "we make dinner together. You will help me, little man."
Kaino's chest tightened. His stomach fluttered with anticipation. Finally. At last.
He climbed onto the stool by the prep counter, knife in hand, eyes wide and attentive.
"First," Keano said, "we start with simple vegetables. Carrots, zucchini, onions. Observe my motion. I will not cut for you. I will not touch the knife for you. You watch, then imitate. Understand?"
"Yes, Papa," Kaino whispered.
The knives were laid before him. Each one gleamed like a promise, the steel reflecting the soft kitchen lights. Kaino's small fingers flexed nervously around the handle.
Keano chose a carrot, holding it upright, steady, cutting the ends with swift precision. Each motion was deliberate—wrist flick, slight rotation, clean slice.
Kaino mirrored it in the air with his knife. Tap. Tap. Tap. The movements were awkward but precise, hands shaking slightly.
Kaia hovered nearby, watching silently, her eyes bright. She had watched her brother burn himself days ago. Her brow furrowed. "You're moving too fast," she warned softly. "Slow down. Like Papa."
Kaino adjusted, slowing, aligning his tiny wrist, flexing his fingers properly.
Observation and imitation, he thought.
Patience. Precision.
"Good," Keano said, voice approving. "Now, you try the carrot."
Kaino hesitated. The edge gleamed, sharp and deliberate. He recalled the burn. His fingers tingled, memory alive with pain.
"Remember," Keano said, "respect the knife. Respect the heat. Respect the ingredient."
Kaino nodded. Slowly, carefully, he placed the knife against the carrot. Tap. Slice. The carrot resisted slightly, the knife wobbled, but the cut was clean.
He tried again. Another slice—more confident, more precise.
Kaia clapped quietly. "You're doing it!"
Yes… yes, Kaino thought. I can do this.
Keano watched silently, guiding only with words. "Excellent. Now, alignment. Look at the spacing between slices. Balance. Evenness. Not speed. Balance."
Kaino mimicked, noting each rotation, every subtle tilt. His small fingers ached slightly—not from the weight—but from focus, from the demand of perfect motion.
Hours seemed to pass in minutes. Each vegetable became a study. Each slice, a lesson.
During a short break, Mirabel approached cautiously, her eyes flicking to the knife. "Keano… are you sure about this?"
Keano looked up, smiling faintly. "He's ready. Today is about learning control, not cutting food yet. He has the instinct, the observation. Now he needs experience."
Mirabel exhaled, watching Kaino pick up a zucchini with careful hands. "I still worry," she admitted.
"You should," Keano said gently. "Because knives are not toys. And because he must learn to respect them. But I am here. He will not be alone. Not for a second."
Mirabel nodded slowly. "I… trust you."
Dinner began in earnest.
Keano moved like always—smooth, deliberate, commanding but calm. Kaino followed, hands small but deliberate, repeating every motion as accurately as possible.
Carrots diced. Zucchini julienned. Onions minced. Each slice was clean, precise, measured. He didn't rush. He felt the weight of the knife, the resistance of each vegetable, the subtle feedback through his tiny hands.
Kaia leaned over occasionally, whispering corrections. "Don't tilt your wrist too far. Like this."
Kaino adjusted instantly. Observation. Imitation. Improvement.
Keano stepped back for a moment, observing the work. "Good. Your fingers are safe. Your technique is improving. That is more important than speed or quantity. Always remember—respect comes first."
Kaino's small chest puffed out slightly. Approval from Papa. That was all he needed.
By the time the meal was plated, Kaino had mastered—at least for the morning—the proper grip, motion, and respect for the knife.
Mirabel finally exhaled, relieved. "He's learning. He's really learning."
Kaia grinned. "He's Papa's little shadow."
Kaino looked up at his father, tiny eyes bright. "Am I… good?" he asked softly.
Keano knelt, hand over his son's, thumb brushing the knife lightly. "You are learning. And that is the most important step of all."
Kaino smiled faintly, small but full of promise.
One day, he thought, I will master this. One day, I will cook like Papa. One day… I will surpass him.
The knives gleamed silently on the counter, tools of mastery, respect, and patience.
And for the first time, Kaino St. Hunter held one with both reverence and understanding.
System status: dormant.
Learning: active.
Respect for fire and steel: instilled.
The kitchen, alive with motion, smelled of beginnings.
And Kaino knew—with quiet certainty—that this was only the start.