On the mountain, at the edge of the deep forest.
"So, will you finally take me hunting, Grandpa?" little Samael asked, his eyebrows arched with excitement. His eyes had flown so wide they looked like two full moons. "I thought you weren't going to take me anymore. I was actually really sad."
As he uttered those last words, the boy's shoulders slumped. It was a gesture so small, so childish, that any adult watching would have smiled with tenderness. But there was something more to it.
A contained disappointment that had been building up day after day, week after week.
"Come now, son," his grandfather stepped closer, his voice softer than ever. "Cheer up, don't feel that way. I made you wait a long time, but I've agreed now, haven't I? So don't be so discouraged, okay?"
"Okay, Grandpa," Samael replied, and gradually his sudden sadness vanished, like clouds scattered by the wind. "You're a little bit right."
A little? the grandfather grumbled internally, though a smile traced itself beneath his beard. A little, Samael? Only a little.
"I'm glad you're feeling better," he said aloud, regaining his master's tone. "Now, let us move on to the basic rules of the hunt."
"The basic rules?" Samael repeated, tilting his head like a curious little bird.
"That's right. So pay close attention," the grandfather replied, stretching the muscles in his shoulders and neck. It was an automatic gesture, the prelude to any serious activity.
And Samael said nothing. He only nodded. His head steady, his eyes wide. Ready to soak up every word like a sponge.
"Since it's your first time, I'll give you some advice," the grandfather murmured.
And as he spoke, his calloused hand—the same one that moments ago swung an axe with brutal strength, capable of splitting a log in a single blow—rested with infinite gentleness upon the boy's head. His large fingers, knuckles scarred by decades of combat, sank into the dark hair and began to stroke it.
With the same tenderness one uses to caress something you know you will eventually have to let go.
"Okay," little Samael replied.
His voice was a childish whisper. Sweet. And it was filled with absolute, blind, total trust. The kind of trust only a child can have in his grandfather. That certainty that nothing bad can happen because he is there.
That trust nearly broke the old man's heart.
I don't want to take him, the master thought, and within him, a silent war broke out. The two halves of his being clashed against one another with the fury of a hurricane. He's just a child. My child.
But another part of him—the part that had seen too much, the part that knew the cruelty of the world beyond the safety of the cabin, the part that had buried friends and foes alike—knew the truth.
This was necessary.
Not to make him a ruthless warrior. Not to harden him until he became cold and unfeeling. But to give him the chance to become a survivor.
Because, as the saying went: the pain of now could save his life later.
"Go and get ready then, little one," he told him, the command wrapped in a tone so affectionate it hardly sounded like one. It was a "go" that was almost a "please." A "get ready" that was almost a "stay."
And where is the advice? Samael thought, with that implacable logic that characterized him even at three years old. He said he'd give me advice, but he only told me to get ready.
But he couldn't follow that thought. Because after all, his grandfather's command—even one wrapped in affection—was more important than the idea in his head.
The three-year-old rose from where he sat on the threshold. His small wooden staff was already firmly gripped in his right hand, as if it were an extension of his own body.
With a determination that defied his years, and with small but steady steps, he headed to the room to change.
While Samael prepared, the grandfather stayed outside.
His gaze drifted into the vast green mantle of the forest that stretched at his feet, descending the slope as far as the eye could see.
The treetops formed an undulating sea of dark green and emerald, with patches of autumn colors here and there. Beyond, far in the distance, the violet mountains on the other side of the valley loomed.
Doubt gnawed at him.
"What should I do?" he whispered to himself, the question echoing in his mind like a funeral drum. Thump. Thump. Thump.
He debated internally and fiercely.
"Should I feed him before we go?"
He ran his tongue over his lips, a gesture of concentration.
"The journey will be long. The hunt, exhausting. A full stomach gives energy, yes. But also heaviness. Sluggishness. An empty stomach sharpens the senses; it brings lightness, faster reflexes. But also weakness."
It was a brutal equation.
For a three-year-old, every variable was a double-edged sword.
"If he were a trained warrior, the answer would be clear: empty. But he is not a warrior. He is a prodigy, yes. His talent… his talent is monstrous. But his body is small. His endurance, limited. His stomach, tiny."
The internal struggle was fierce. He could feel the two paths branching before him, and he did not know which was right.
Finally, the old man sighed.
A long, deep sound that seemed to take a piece of his own peace with it. As if by exhaling, he had also let go of some of his certainty.
"Well," he whispered to himself, and the word was a verdict. "I lean toward taking him without eating."
The decision weighed like lead on his conscience. Like a slab he had just placed upon his own shoulders.
But the instructor's logic—that logic forged in a thousand battles, in losses he had never quite moved past, in sleepless nights remembering those he could not save—prevailed.
"Even if something were to go wrong… I will be there."
That last sentence was his talisman. His absolute promise. His oath.
He would be the shield. He would be the safety net. He would allow the child to feel the edge of hunger and danger. He would teach him what it meant to be at the limit. But never, under any circumstances, would he let him fall completely.
Or so he believed.