Chapter 6

The Filavandrel manor's courtyard was quiet except for the steady sound of wood hitting wood. Shaun moved with determination, swinging his wooden sword again and again. Sweat dripped down his face, and his arms burned from exhaustion, but he didn't stop. He couldn't—not when the memory of that terrible evening still haunted him.

It had been two years since the attack. Two years since his mother had died protecting him. Two years of waiting, training, and hoping. And yet, he still had no clue who the man was that had destroyed his world.

Shaun struck the training dummy hard, the impact sending splinters flying. He stood there, breathing heavily, staring at the broken dummy. If only I had been stronger… if only I had been faster…

His grip tightened on the wooden sword. He stepped back, adjusting his stance. The memory of that night rushed back—the stranger's sword slicing through the air, his mother's scream, the blood on the ground. He shook his head, trying to push it away, but it clung to him like a shadow.

Shaun lunged forward, his wooden sword cutting through the air with a sharp whoosh. He imagined the stranger standing before him, his blade gleaming in the moonlight. He ducked to the side, narrowly avoiding an imaginary strike, and countered with a swift slash. The dummy shuddered under the force, but Shaun didn't stop. He spun, his body moving on instinct, and delivered a hard kick, knocking the dummy over.

But it still wasn't enough. His mother was still gone. The faceless man was still out there. And Shaun was still too weak.

"You're pushing yourself too hard."

Shaun turned to see his father, Aldric, standing at the edge of the courtyard. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those piercing green eyes—were filled with a sadness Shaun had come to know all too well.

"I have to," Shaun said, his voice firm. "I can't just sit here and do nothing."

Aldric's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he turned and walked away, his cloak billowing behind him. Shaun watched him go, his heart heavy with unspoken words.

The sun had set, and the manor was quiet, but Shaun was still in the courtyard training. The moonlight cast long shadows over the training grounds. He swung his sword again, sharper, faster, more precise.

Why can't I remember his face? Why can't I remember anything that will help me find him?

He pictured the man standing in front of him again. He could see the shape of the sword, the speed of the attack, but never the face. He dodged to the side, imagining the blade barely missing him. He struck back, his wooden sword cutting through the empty air. His breathing was heavy, but he didn't stop.

One strike. Then another. And another. Harder. Faster. His arms ached, his muscles burned, but still, he kept going. Again. Again. Until his body gave out and he fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

"You'll hurt yourself if you keep this up."

Shaun's head snapped up. Geralt stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching him. The old warrior had always been there—a mentor, a protector, and, in some ways, a friend.

"Did my father send you?" Shaun's voice was sharp, frustration clear. "Tell him not to worry. I'll be fine."

Geralt sighed. "Your father didn't send me. I came because I'm worried about you. You're pushing yourself too hard, Shaun. This isn't how you get stronger."

Shaun gritted his teeth. "Then what should I do? Sit around and wait? My father is out there searching for answers, but he won't even look at me. It's like he blames me for what happened."

Geralt's eyes softened. He stepped forward, speaking calmly. "Shaun, your father doesn't blame you. He blames himself."

Shaun froze. "What?"

Geralt placed a firm hand on Shaun's shoulder. "Your father thinks he failed you. He wasn't there to protect your mother. He wasn't there to protect you. That guilt… it's eating him alive. He avoids looking at you because he feels like he doesn't deserve to."

Shaun's throat tightened, but he shook his head. "Then why is he never here? Why is he always out there looking for a man he we don't even know what he looks like? If he really cared, he'd be here. He'd talk to me."

Geralt sighed. "He's searching because he thinks it's the only way to make things right. He believes that if he can find the man who did this, it will give you peace. But it's consuming him. The other council members are starting to worry. They think he's losing himself in the search."

Shaun clenched his fists. "I don't need him to fix everything. I just need him to be here."

Geralt's grip on his shoulder tightened. "He doesn't know how to be here, Shaun. His grief and guilt are so heavy that he can't see what's right in front of him. But that doesn't mean he doesn't care. He loves you more than anything. He just doesn't know how to show it right now."

Shaun lowered his gaze, his anger slowly fading. He wanted to believe Geralt's words, but it was hard.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" he asked quietly. "Just wait for him to figure it out?"

Geralt shook his head. "No. You keep moving forward. You get stronger—not just for yourself, but for him too. And when the time comes, you'll be ready to face whatever's out there. But you can't do it alone, Shaun. You have to let people in. You have to let him in."

Shaun didn't answer. He just stood there, Geralt's words sinking in.

For the first time in two years, he felt like he understood—not just his father, but himself.