He did not praise my swordsmanship.
He did not mention the duel.
Instead, he spoke of absence—of what he had not seen, and why that mattered more than what he had.
"There are those who rely on power," he said, eyes never leaving mine, "and those who unconsciously make space for it. You are the latter."
The word unconsciously lingered.
He explained nothing further.
No theories. No promises.
Only that he had watched many gifted individuals over the years, and fewer still who carried restraint without knowing why. That kind of restraint, he said, often bent reality before it ever touched it.
Then he asked me something no one outside the household ever had.
"What name do they call you?"
For a moment, the answer felt heavier than any duel.
But I gave it.
The name that had been placed on me.
The one that had followed.
The old man repeated it once, softly, testing its sound.
"Names matter," he said at last. "Especially when they begin to travel."