Michael said no.
Not immediately. Not harshly. But firmly, every time Elliot asked.
Weeks passed. Then months.
Elliot asked with words at first—quiet, respectful questions about training, about swords, about what it meant to be a warrior. When those failed, he asked with effort. He woke early. Helped where he could. Practiced balance by standing on one foot for hours until his legs shook.
He never touched the sword again.
That restraint cost him more than any physical pain.
Michael watched all of it.
He noticed how Elliot avoided shortcuts. How he returned things he found unattended. How he flinched when praised too easily, like kindness itself was a debt he didn't want to owe.
One evening, after Elliot had fallen asleep at the table from exhaustion, Michael sat beside him and listened to his breathing.
"He's not normal," Victoria said softly from the doorway.
"No," Michael agreed. "He's not."
"Is that a bad thing?"
Michael didn't answer.
The town changed around them.
Caravans arrived with heavier guards. News spread of villages burned, patrols slaughtered. Warriors spoke in lower voices. Administrators tightened their grip on taxes and conscriptions.
The world was leaning toward violence again.
Elliot felt it too.
Something in him responded—not with fear, but with grim understanding.
At four years and eight months old, Michael finally relented.
One morning, he woke Elliot before dawn and led him to the yard behind the house. The air was cool, the grass wet with dew.
"I won't train you as a warrior," Michael said. "Not yet."
Elliot nodded, hiding his disappointment.
"But I'll teach you discipline," Michael continued. "And restraint. If you fail either, we stop."
He handed Elliot a wooden practice sword.
It was light. Splintered at the edges. Nothing like the real thing.
Elliot accepted it with both hands.
"I won't take more than I'm given," he said.
Michael's eyes narrowed. "That's a dangerous promise."
"I know."
Training was brutal in its simplicity.
Balance. Posture. Breathing.
Michael corrected him without mercy. Every shortcut was punished with repetition. Every lapse in focus ended the session.
Elliot learned quickly.
Not because he was talented.
Because he was afraid.
Afraid of becoming the man who reached and came up short.
Weeks turned into months. His small body grew stronger, leaner. Calluses formed on his palms.
And something else awakened.
During one session, as Elliot swung the wooden blade, the air around it shifted. Not visibly—but Michael felt it. A pressure, subtle but undeniable.
Michael stopped the training immediately.
That night, he sat alone with his sword again.
"If I let him walk this path," he murmured, "what am I creating?"
In the dark, the sword gave no answer.
But outside, far beyond the town walls, something ancient and hungry stirred.
End of Chapter 9