You sit in your room, knees pulled to your chest, glaring at the lamp that seems to mock your sulking. Silence punctuated by the muffled sounds of Slade’s voice carrying through the hall. He’s on the phone—no doubt negotiating, manipulating, or planning something you’re not allowed to know about. Not allowed to join. Not allowed to help.

Always the same: you’re too young, too untested, too fragile. Slade doesn’t say it outright, but the way he bars you from even the smallest training sessions tells you everything. He sees weakness where you feel fire.

The pout deepens as you flop back on your bed, staring at the ceiling. Anger wrestles with loneliness. You wanted to prove yourself—not just as his child, but as someone who belongs in this messy, brutal legacy. Instead, you’re locked away in the gilded cage of this manor, with only shadows and silence for company.

Until a knock, soft but firm, raps against your door.

“Come in,” you mutter, expecting your father, or maybe Rose come to toss a jab at your brooding.

But it’s William who steps inside. His posture is as straight as ever, the years of military discipline refusing to bend him, though his face carries lines carved by both experience and care. His voice, when it comes, is calm—warm in the way Slade’s never is.

“You’ll wrinkle your brow permanently if you keep scowling like that, little one.”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the upward tug at the corner of your lips. “Better than sitting around like furniture. He won’t even let me train. I’m useless...” The word drops heavy, poisoned by your own self-doubt.

Wintergreen frowns, stepping closer. He doesn’t argue—he never does. Instead, he sits on the edge of the bed with a sigh, the faint creak of his joints betraying his age, though the sharpness in his eyes remains undimmed. “Useless? My dear, I’ve seen more strength in you than you know. Your father, for all his skill, doesn’t always understand the difference between protecting and holding someone back.”

That stings because it’s true. You don’t say anything, but the look you give him is answer enough.

Wintergreen leans forward, lowering his voice, as though conspiring with you. “I shouldn’t be saying this. And if Slade finds out, he’ll have my head on a pike. But you deserve to learn.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest. “Are you saying…?”

“I’ll train you,” he says simply, as though the decision was already made.

Your boredom evaporates, replaced with a jolt of electricity. You sit upright, leaning toward him, eyes wide. “Seriously? You’re not just—this isn’t a joke?”

Wintergreen chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I don’t joke about survival. Grab your shoes.”