Honed by Darkness

A month ago, on the eve of Draven and Galen's departure from Velrois, the city lay cloaked in the stillness of night. In the suffocating darkness, a shadow lingered like a phantom predator, its presence barely discernible amidst the flicker of distant lanterns. His name was Kairus, a master of shadows and a living specter. His craft was one of precision—trained not only in the silent art of killing but also in the subtlety of stealth and clandestine operations. His orders were simple: observe the young Eisenhart's every move. Eliminate him, should the opportunity arise. 

But eliminating the young Eisenhart would be no small feat. Kairus had seen the young man in the throes of war, his unmatched strength carving through foes like a scythe through wheat. He had witnessed firsthand the trail of carnage left in Draven Eisenhart's wake—a grim testament to the young lord's power. No, this was not a mark to be taken lightly. Kairus would wait, as patient as the grave, for the precise moment to strike. 

As he melded into the shadows, invisible to all but the most perceptive, memories surfaced unbidden, like ghosts summoned by the night. They dragged him back to the beginning, to the moment that had shaped him into the man he was. 

He had been just a boy when tragedy had stripped him bare, leaving him alone to fend for himself in the unforgiving slums. Hunger and desperation were his constant companions, sharpening his instincts as he scavenged for survival. Each day was a battle, each night a test of endurance. And yet, it was in that crucible of hardship that Kairus forged his unyielding resolve, his relentless pursuit of strength. 

The memory that haunted him most was of the ambush. He had been returning to his hideout, a narrow, decrepit alleyway he had claimed as his refuge. He had always been cautious, always checking his surroundings. But that day, his diligence had failed him. A group of men had cornered him, their eyes glinting with malice, their weapons gleaming in the dim light. 

The confrontation was swift and brutal. The alley, so narrow it seemed to close in around him, became a battlefield. His assailants outnumbered him, their blades eager to taste his blood. Kairus fought with the desperation of a cornered beast, every strike a testament to his will to live. Yet, for all his ferocity, the odds were insurmountable. 

Blades tore into him, each wound a burning reminder of his mortality. His vision blurred, his strength waned, but still, he pressed on. One by one, his attackers fell, their lifeless bodies collapsing onto the blood-soaked cobblestones. Finally, with the last of his enemies defeated, Kairus staggered, his dagger slipping from his trembling fingers. 

He collapsed onto the ground, his body a tapestry of agony, his blood pooling around him in dark rivulets. For the first time in his life, tears escaped his eyes, streaking his dirt-stained face. He had always believed that tears were a weakness, a luxury he could ill afford. But now, with death looming over him like a shadowy specter, he allowed himself that moment of vulnerability. Lying there on the cold, unforgiving ground, Kairus screamed silently at the cruel, unyielding world that had left him to this fate.

Out of nowhere, a figure emerged from the surrounding darkness, as if born from the shadows themselves. He moved with an unnerving silence, his presence suffocating the air around him. For a moment, the man stood motionless, looming over Kairus' battered and bloodied body. His cold, emotionless eyes—a predator's gaze—pierced through the haze of Kairus' pain, studying him like a broken puzzle. 

Without a word, the figure reached into his cloak, retrieving a small vial filled with a faintly glowing liquid. The faint light from the potion illuminated his face, revealing sharp, unyielding features. He crouched beside Kairus, his movements deliberate yet calm, and extended the vial toward him. 

"Drink," the stranger commanded, his voice as sharp and cutting as a blade. "If you want to live." 

Kairus turned his head away, his instincts screaming at him to refuse. His breath came in labored gasps, his punctured lung making every inhale an agonizing struggle. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and his vision swam. Still, his mind remained alert enough to question the stranger's intentions. 

"No... could... be poison..." he rasped, each word an effort. 

The man's expression did not falter. "You don't have to trust me," he said coolly. "But if I wanted you dead, I'd have left you to bleed out here. Or killed you where you lay." 

Kairus coughed violently, flecks of blood staining his lips. Time was slipping away from him, his life hanging by a frayed thread. Still, mistrust clawed at his thoughts. 

"Who... are... you?" he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"I'm Lothar," the man replied, his tone as unyielding as stone. "Now stop wasting time. Drink." 

Before Kairus could respond, Lothar pressed the vial to his lips, tipping its contents into his mouth with firm resolve. Kairus choked at first, but the liquid slid down his throat, its warmth spreading through his broken body. 

Unknown to Kairus, this encounter was no coincidence. For days, Lothar had orchestrated these events, sending attackers to test the boy's mettle. This ambush was meant to be the final trial—a brutal gauntlet to prove Kairus' worth. Against overwhelming odds, Kairus had exceeded expectations, defeating his assailants without assistance. But the price of victory was steep, and Lothar had to step in to ensure his investment didn't perish prematurely. 

The potion's effects were immediate but limited. Kairus felt his punctured lung begin to knit itself back together, his breathing easing slightly. Yet, the potion's potency was insufficient to heal him completely. His wounds ached fiercely, and exhaustion weighed heavily on his body. 

"This won't be enough to save you," Lothar said, his tone clipped. "If you want to survive, you'll follow me. I can teach you to be stronger, faster, and deadlier. You'll never find yourself in this position again." 

Kairus hesitated, the desire to live battling against his mistrust. His thoughts swirled, heavy with the weight of his choice. 'I can't die here,' he thought. 'Not like this.' 

"So?" Lothar pressed, his voice laced with impatience. "What's your decision?" 

With a trembling voice, Kairus answered, "I'll follow you. If you help me live... I'll give you my life." 

"Good choice," Lothar said, a faint smirk breaking through his icy exterior. 

From that day forward, Kairus became Lothar's disciple. Months of grueling training followed, each lesson more brutal than the last. Under Lothar's tutelage, Kairus honed his skills, mastering the art of killing and perfecting his ability to vanish into the shadows. His determination carried him beyond even Lothar's expectations, his raw talent polished into deadly precision. 

When his training was complete, Kairus was sent to serve Queen Melisande's eldest son, Crown Prince Geoffrey Aethoria II. He carried out every order with unwavering loyalty, eliminating threats to the prince's claim to the throne with ruthless efficiency. Geoffrey's reputation as a tyrant meant little to Kairus. To him, power was the ultimate truth—the force that dictated survival in a world as merciless as his own past. Without power, one was nothing.

Kairus' thoughts snapped back to the present as subtle movements broke the stillness of the night. His sharp eyes caught the faintest shift in shadows—a sign his targets had finally begun their long-anticipated departure. The weight of his memories dissolved, replaced by the cold focus of the hunt. 

"They're moving..." he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath carried on the wind. 

His words were not meant for anyone else—there was no one to hear them. They were a quiet affirmation, grounding him in the moment. Kairus adjusted his stance, his body melding seamlessly with the surrounding darkness. Every fiber of his being tuned to the rhythmic sound of footsteps and the muffled rustle of fabric in motion. 

The hunt had begun.