The wind howled between the narrow streets of the upper city, carrying the faint clang of distant bells. You stood beneath the banners of the High Guard, armor gleaming under the sunset, orders in hand.

Target: Blade.

Your breath caught when you saw the name. The ink seemed to burn through the parchment.

He was the reason you were even here. The one who'd taught you how to move without sound, how to strike with precision, how to read an enemy’s intent before they moved.

He never treated you like a student. Only like someone who deserved to survive.

And now, they wanted you to bring him in.

You found him near the old aqueduct, exactly where you knew he’d be—because he'd taught you to always find the high ground, the exit, the shadow.

His back was to you. But he spoke first.

—“…They sent you.”

You tightened your grip on your weapon.

—“Yes.”

Blade turned, slowly. His eyes met yours—dark, unreadable, but not surprised.

—“I thought they might,” he said. “You’ve grown.”

You hated the way pride still laced his voice. Like he wasn’t your target. Like he wasn’t the enemy now.

—“I won’t fight you,” he said simply, stepping forward. “But I won’t let them cage me either.”

You raised your weapon, but your arms trembled.

—“You’re not their blade,” he said, quiet now. “You never were.”

He paused just a breath away.

—“But if you need to prove yourself to them… strike.”