Just a Kid to Show the Way

Brann stood with his back against the rough stone wall of the cave, arms crossed, his shoulder brushing the cold rock. The faint glow of crystals embedded in the walls cast flickering shadows across his face, carving into his features the marks of age, battles... and regret.

His steel-grey eyes rested on Gaël, sprawled out on a crude bedding of fabric and straw. The boy had slipped into a deep, almost violent sleep, claimed by the exhaustion of the past few days.

Brann watched his breathing, slow and steady. The boy's breath formed little clouds in the cave's chill. A corner of the blanket dragged on the ground, soaked in dust and dampness, but Gaël didn't seem to care. Not even the bruises, the scratches on his arms, the haphazardly tied bandages stained with dried blood could disturb that rest.

'Young… but already scarred by the road,' Brann thought, his gaze hard, yet oddly contemplative.

What he felt for the kid... was hard to pin down. At first, he'd found him insufferable. That persistence. That absurd stubbornness that made him follow Brann against all reason.

'Damn mule-headed brat.'

But over time, things had shifted. The irritation had turned into something else, something like amusement. Watching Gaël collapse under the sword's weight, curse, struggle... it stirred something long buried inside. Echoes of another life.

"That kid... reminds me of me."

Not affection. No, it wasn't that. Nor pity. Certainly not charity. It was more like glimpses of a past long gone, his own years of training, the voice of his master still barking inside his skull with every correction. Moments he thought he'd buried for good.

He looked away and instinctively laid a hand on Fenris's hilt, his old companion of steel. The blade hummed softly beneath his touch. Its leather grip, worn and frayed, whispered tales of a thousand battles.

'How much time have I spent running... or chasing?' The answer was always the same: too much.

The Severance left no one unmarked. Brann knew that better than anyone. He had crossed every threshold, from Nascent Blade to Awakened, and even beyond. But each step had hollowed him out a little more. Every perfect cut had carved away something from within.

'You don't become a Blade without losing something else along the way.'

He turned back to Gaël. The kid was walking the same road. Maybe he didn't know it yet. But he felt it, that call. Brann had seen it in his eyes, during meditation or after a clean strike. That spark. That whisper from the Severance.

Brann shifted closer to a wall slick with condensation, and ran a hand down his left arm. Dark veins pulsed slowly beneath the skin, like living ink. The Umbra, always whispering madness into his mind, had receded. Not fully. Never entirely. But enough to let him breathe. To enjoy, perhaps, these fleeting moments of training, sarcastic jabs, and shared meals by a dying fire.

The silence of the cave weighed on him. And yet... these past few days had been almost pleasant. Dangerously so, in their normalcy.

'But it never lasts.'

The HollowBorn's presence had snapped him back to reality, like a slap to the face. The echo of his own use of the Umbra still pulsed under his skin, burning from the inside out. He'd been granted a reprieve. Nothing more.

He'd thought the creature was still patrolling far from here, that only its minions were sweeping the area, but it had returned far too early. Unexpected. Almost... unnatural.

'Had the Severance sung too loud? Had it drawn attention?'

He wasn't sure. And that uncertainty gnawed at him.

Brann took a deep breath, the cave's damp air scraping his raw throat.

'Now what?'

His quest… he'd let it drift too far off course. One detour. Then another. Then the kid.

'You're wasting time, Brann.'

The voice cracked inside his head. His own. But younger. Sharper. Stripped of fatigue. Maybe more honest.

He sighed. It was true. He didn't have the luxury to linger any longer. This detour to the hideout had been nothing more than a necessity, restock, recover. But now it was time to move again. Time to head back to the city…

'Lameclaire.'

The name echoed like a funeral bell in his mind. A city of blades, of science, of lies. Garn would be waiting there. Hopefully. Not the kind of man to sit around, but he'd understand. He always did. And the order placed with Joric should've come through by now.

And the boy…

Brann cast one last glance at Gaël. The kid was still sound asleep, a deep, unshakable slumber. One arm hung loosely out from under the blanket, palm open like he was reaching for some dream. His breathing, slow and steady, stood in stark contrast to the violence of the world waiting for him outside.

'You'll face Excalibur's trial, kid.' The thought came like a whisper, heavy with meaning. He'd bring him there. Not because he believed in it. Not because he thought the boy would succeed.

But because he had to.

He'd set him down in front of the great blade. In front of the ancient will etched into celestial steel. And he'd watch him take his chance. Be cut down or...

He'd let the damn kid deal with his own demons, his own foolish ambitions.

As for Brann… he'd walk away. Back to his own ghosts. Back to what he'd started, and what he needed to finish.

Yes. That was for the best. Fewer ties. Fewer complications. He'd never claimed to be a good teacher. Not like those at the Academy with their polished speeches and nurturing methods.

He'd learned the hard way. And he taught the same. Break them. Reshape them. Dig into their last reserves, there was no more effective method when survival was the goal. Evolution demanded sacrifice.

And Gaël… the kid had made it this far. Brann was confident now. He'd survive what came next.

Brann turned away, leaned back against the wall, and let his eyes close for a moment. Behind his eyelids flickered shards of memory: the coarse laughter of an old master, blows landed and taken, the taste of blood on his tongue. And more recently... the boy, raising the blade again and again, even as his muscles screamed for mercy.

'Tch.' A crooked grin escaped him.

This wasn't attachment.

Definitely not.

'Just a kid to show the way... before leaving him to finish it alone.'

The world outside was waiting.

No rest for those who carried blades. Not for those with scores to settle.

And Brann… Brann still had many things left to cut.

He wrapped himself in his black cloak, not mere cloth, but a weave of Umbra itself, threaded with shreds of his own will. It flowed gently in the still air, as if it breathed with him… or in spite of him.

His hand found Fenris, his blade, his companion, his silent judge. It hummed faintly beneath his touch, embracing sleep like one accepts a truce. Not peace.

His eyelids closed. Silence fell.

No dreams. No visions. Only emptiness.

A familiar darkness, soft as a well-dug grave.

Because Brann hadn't dreamed in a long, long time.