It was the broad, familiar back of his grandfather.
The man held an axe high.
The muscles in his arms and back were taut as ropes beneath skin tanned by years of sun and battle. Every fiber, every tendon, every fold of skin spoke of accumulated strength, of decades of movement, of a life dedicated to mastering his body.
With a fluid and powerful motion—not uncontrolled brute force, but pure precision, a choreography perfected over years—the axe descended.
The blade cut through the air with a barely perceptible whistle.
And sank into a log of firewood with a clean, satisfying thunk.
The wood split into two perfect halves, which fell on either side of the stump with a dry thud against the earth.
Clap.
That was the sound. That was the rhythm he had heard from inside.
My grandfather is truly incredible, thought the newly awakened Samael, watching the scene with admiration. So the sounds I heard were from the firewood. Good thing it wasn't a beast.
"You're finally awake," the silhouette murmured, still without turning around.
The grandfather's voice came through clearly despite the distance, despite the murmur of the wind among the pines.
But then, the man turned his head first. Then his whole body.
The grandfather's eyes, as sharp as the edge of his axe—eyes that had seen battles, that had seen deaths, that had seen the world in its cruelest form—settled on Samael.
And not on his face.
On the staff the child held firmly in his hand.
That boy seems to have applied all the lessons I gave him, the old man thought, watching his grandson gripping the staff tightly, ready, alert. And I like that. I like that you are so diligent. Because that makes me feel a little safe.
But the thought didn't end there.
And also terrified.
There was no fear in his eyes, no. But there was concern. A deep concern, the kind only grandparents feel when thinking about their grandchildren's future.
And if one day, or at night, I wake up to drink water and he thinks I'm a monster… and attacks me with a spell.
The image was as absurd as it was terrifying. He, the ancient warrior, the man who had split rocks with his sword, reduced to ashes by a spell from his three-year-old grandson in a fit of instinctive defense.
I'm not afraid. Not at all. But with one's guard down, even an ant can completely defeat an elephant.
"Uh…" Samael stammered, surprised by the scrutiny, by the intensity of his grandfather's gaze.
"You already had your staff in your hand," the old man observed.
It wasn't a reproach. It wasn't a criticism. It was an observation. A fact.
He had felt the slight fluctuation of spiritual energy. The air, for an instant, had smelled a bit like smoke. Samael had already been preparing a spell. His body, his instinct, his training, had reacted before his consciousness. Upon hearing a strange sound—no matter how familiar—his small being had gone into defense mode.
The defensive instinct had made Samael, even half asleep, arm himself. Made his spiritual energy begin to flow. Made a spell about to materialize.
Unfortunately—or luckily—it was an attack that never fully materialized. But it was ready. Prepared. Waiting.
A wide smile, made of wrinkles and pride, opened on the old man's face. It wasn't a mocking smile. It was one of satisfaction. Of approval.
"Well done!" he exclaimed, and his voice boomed in the fresh morning air, causing some nearby birds to take flight. "I like that you are always prepared. And attentive. Never let your guard down, not even at home. Not even with me."
Samael, relieved to see there was no danger, relieved to see it was only his grandfather, relieved to see that proud smile on his face, smiled back.
A small smile. But bright.
"Good morning, Grandfather," he said. "Are you already working this early?"
He paused, yawning and stretching simultaneously—a complicated combination for a three-year-old. Because he hadn't even had time to do that when he woke up. His whole body had been on high alert since the first strange sound.
"I just woke up."
"Ha, ha, ha," the grandfather's laughter boomed again, but this time softer, warmer. "Don't worry too much about me, little one."
The old man approached. He left the axe embedded in the stump—always in the same place, always with the same gesture—and crouched in front of Samael.
His hand, large and rough, calloused by decades of wielding weapons, rested on the child's disheveled head. And began to stroke.
With a softness that contrasted with everything that hand could do. With a tenderness that existed only for this moment, for this child, for this home.
"An old body needs to move with the sun," he said, as his hand continued stroking the dark hair. "Otherwise, it might rust. And a rusty body is a dead body."
Several minutes passed like that.
In comfortable silence. In peace.
The sun continued rising slowly, painting the sky in increasingly warm tones. The wind moved the tops of the pines, creating a soft, constant murmur. The birds, after the initial fright, had resumed singing.
The grandfather made comments about the weather—"it's going to be hot today, hotter than yesterday"—about the day's work—"we need to fix that part of the roof that leaks when it rains"—about small, everyday things that built Samael's world brick by brick.
Until, suddenly, the old man straightened up.
The hand stopped. The caress ceased.
His expression changed. It wasn't an abrupt change, but it was total. The grandfather's tenderness merged with something else. Something more serious. Something more ancient. The severity of the teacher.
He looked Samael directly in the eyes.
And in those eyes, the child saw something he couldn't identify. Something beyond his three-year-old understanding. But he felt it. He felt it deep within his being.
---
"What did he say?" asked Ed Tonor in the tavern, unable to contain himself.
He had been so absorbed in the story that he hadn't even realized he was tearing off a piece of warm bread with his teeth, chewing without tasting, swallowing without feeling. All his attention, all his consciousness, was on Samael. On the cabin. On that dawn.
Samael, in the present, took some grapes from the plate.
He held them between his index finger and thumb, rolling them gently, as if weighing the memory itself. As if each grape were a moment from that past, and he was deciding which one to share.
Then he brought them to his mouth and chewed slowly.
Letting the anticipation grow. Letting Ed wait. Letting the silence, inside the bubble, tighten like a bowstring.
Finally, he spoke.
And when he did, his voice took on a different tone. Deeper. More profound. A cadence that wasn't his own, but that fit him perfectly. The unmistakable cadence of his grandfather.
He projected the words that had changed the course of that day. And of many that would follow.
" 'Today we will not train with energy-wrapped swords or controlled fireballs, boy.' "
A dramatic pause. Full of the weight of what was to come.
" 'Today you will learn the oldest and most crucial lesson. The one that separates the student from the survivor.' "
Samael's eyes, in the tavern, met Ed's. And in them shone the echo of that distant morning. The light of that dawn. The memory of that moment.
" 'We are going hunting.' "