Silence fell over the tavern like a cold wave. The music stopped. In one corner, Kael's sailors reached for their weapons — but Marcus stopped them with a firm arm, without even rising from his chair.
"The Captain is being attacked!" shouted a green hand, reaching for his dagger.
"Don't worry — it's Kael," Marcus replied calmly, lifting his mug to his lips while watching the scene over the rim. "Even a little past his limit, he won't lose."
"But the one attacking him is the young thief with the best fighting skills!" the newcomer insisted, watching the boy move with feline speed.
"Just a drunken brawl," Marcus said — though his eyes missed nothing. "This'll be over in no time. Though that young one hasn't been drinking... maybe that was his plan from the start. Just wait for the Captain's order. If he decides we finish these kids off, we will."
Kael got up from the floor, brushing shards of pottery from his shoulder. There was a red mark on his jaw where the punch had landed. The boy gave him no time to collect himself: he came in with a second burst — fast, precise, aiming at the ribs and the throat. But Kael's body knew how to fight before his head did. Reflexes forged in a thousand battles reacted on instinct: he blocked the first blow with his forearm, deflected the second with the back of his hand, and used the boy's own momentum to drive him into a wooden column. The boy hit it hard, but bounced back like a cat and came again.
The whole tavern watched from a ragged circle of sweating bodies and raised mugs. Each blow drew a chorus of gasps. The boy was fast — no question; his movements had the fluidity of someone trained in the streets, used to striking before he was seen. But Kael, even with wine clouding his eyes, read each attack half a second before it arrived. He let the boy come close, absorbed or deflected, and responded with measured shoves, as if he were toying with him.
As the fight dragged on, a shadow slipped through the crowd. The young leader of the thieves jumped into the center of the ring. For a moment the sailors held their breath, thinking it would be two against one — but what followed confused them: the leader grabbed his companion by the arm, spun him, and swept his legs out from under him.
"Stop it, you idiot!" he shouted, putting himself between Torin and Kael.
But Torin wasn't listening. He sprang up and threw a punch at Kael over his leader's shoulder. The young man intercepted it without even turning — he caught Torin's arm mid-air, twisted his wrist, and redirected him into the wall with a clean, almost elegant movement. Torin hit it, then got up again. This time he swung an elbow at his own leader. The young man sidestepped with a short lateral step and answered with an open-palm strike to the chest that stopped him cold.
Kael, leaning against a column with his arms crossed, stopped paying attention to Torin. His eyes were fixed on the leader. The way the boy moved was not from the streets. There was no waste in his gestures: every block precise, every step measured. His feet never crossed, he always kept his balance, and he used Torin's force against him rather than meeting it head-on. That wasn't learned picking pockets in alleyways. That was learned under a weapons master.
Kael narrowed his eyes. The memory came like a cold current: he had seen that style before. That high guard, those lateral steps, that way of redirecting rather than striking. It was the combat technique of the royal guard.
The two boys were still wrestling at his feet — one trying to attack, the other trying to stop him — rolling between overturned chairs and pools of wine. Kael watched them for a few more seconds, swaying lightly, a crooked smile working its way onto his face. He tilted his head like a man appraising a show. A sailor offered him a mug and he accepted it, took a long drink, and handed it back.
Then, without warning, he threw himself into the middle of the brawl.
Shouts and cheers erupted across the tavern. Kael seized Torin by the collar, lifted him, and sent him crashing into a table. In the same instant, the leader reacted: he slid toward Kael's flank and tried to pin him with an arm lock. The grip was good — technical, from someone who knew exactly where to apply pressure. Kael felt the precision and for the first time that evening had to actually work to break free. He pivoted on his axis, cracked the lock with a shoulder pull, and connected a sharp headbutt that sent the boy stumbling three steps back. He swayed but didn't fall. He recovered his guard in a blink — fists raised, breathing controlled. Kael noticed that even after a headbutt, he didn't drop his stance.
The two youngsters regrouped and attacked together: Torin from the left, the leader from the right. Torin threw a wide, predictable swing; Kael dodged with a twist of the waist. The leader, however, seized the opening and landed a short, tight punch to Kael's ribs that knocked the breath out of him for a moment. Kael grunted — surprised — and answered with more force than he had used all night. In one fluid motion he hooked the leader's foot with his own and brought him down. The boy fell, rolled, and tried to rise, but Kael had already spun to catch Torin's fist in the air, twist his wrist, and bring him to his knees. Before the leader could get up, Kael planted a boot on his chest and held him down.
When the dust settled, both boys were on the floor — disarmed and gasping. But Kael was looking only at the leader, with an expression that was no longer amusement. It was recognition.
The sailors closed in around the youngsters, now bound, and looked to their captain.
"What's the punishment for these two?" they asked.
Kael, wide grin on his face and cheeks flushed from the wine, pointed at Torin.
"Rough that one up a little. This one—" he said, turning his gaze to the young leader "—I'll handle myself."
---
The Royal Blood Pact
Kael led the boy to a quiet corner of the warehouse and untied him.
"You fight well, boy. But you've still got a long way to go before you can beat me — though I don't think that was your plan to begin with."
When the boy was freed, he didn't try to run. The first thing he did was lower his head.
"I apologize for what my subordinate did."
"Why did that Torin start swinging at me out of nowhere?" Kael asked, curious.
"I think he was just jealous," the boy admitted. "Because you stayed drinking with the Sister."
Kael let out a laugh that bounced off the stone walls.
"I'm not interested in girls. It'd be a long time before I'd even think about something like that with someone like her. But you should all look after her — she's a good girl."
The boy nodded with respect. Kael produced a bottle and two clean glasses.
"I can see you have a lot of respect for me. But you haven't drunk much tonight. I think it's time we had a drink together and talked."
"All right," the young leader answered. "I knew this moment would come."
After drinking together for a while and trading a few pointless jokes to break the ice, Kael turned serious.
"I think it's time you told me the truth about yourselves. First of all — she's not your blood sister. In fact, she's not a blood sister to any of you. How did you all end up here?"
"She helped all of us in our group survive," the boy said with genuine gratitude. "One way or another, she's saved every one of us."
"I see... Were any of you nobles before?"
"No. Only her... and perhaps you might consider me one."
Kael set his glass on the table and fixed his eyes on the boy's.
"There's something in the way you fight that tells me you're no ordinary child. That style of fighting — only a handful of people in this kingdom move that way. You... do you belong to the royal family?"
After a silence that stretched like an eternity, the boy answered firmly:
"I didn't expect you to figure it out so quickly, but yes. I am of the royal family. My name is Aeren."
"And what does a boy who was once a prince — and whom everyone believes dead — want from me?"
"I know of you and your great deeds through the Sister. She told me everything about you. So I know that you'll help me bring about a real change in this kingdom."
"How does she know so much about me?"
"She is the daughter of the old governor," Aeren revealed. "The one you fought alongside many times — the one who turned you from a merchant with military power into what you are today. Her name is Lyra."
Kael didn't answer right away. His hand — the one holding the glass — trembled slightly, so faint that only someone who knew him well would have caught it. He set the glass on the table with excessive care, as if afraid it might break, and brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were wetter than before — though his voice came out whole.
"Now everything makes sense. When I knew her she was just a child, and yes — I owed a great deal to her father. But even when you win on the battlefield, there are battles against illness that no one wins."
"That's right," Aeren continued. "After he died — and after the corrupt governor you killed was installed — they used it to destroy her family's standing and drive them into ruin. They were attacked many times. Lyra was the only one who survived."
"I understand," said Kael, recovering his cynical tone. "But what does any of that have to do with you asking for my help? I'm older now, and I don't think we'd accomplish much fighting the King."
"The current King isn't the one governing," Aeren pressed. "He's ill, and my older brother Roderick rules in his name. I know we share the same goal: stop the corruption in this kingdom and make a real change."
Kael sighed, staring into the bottom of his glass.
"I think you've come about five years too late. Back then, yes — I'd have gone looking for that. But now I doubt we can fight the force of the sea."
"No, you're wrong. Even the sea can give way before a King. If you help me, we'll create the change that everyone wants."
"You're young and full of dreams," Kael replied. "But my words won't teach you anything until you've crashed against reality yourself."
"I'm not asking you to believe in me blindly. I'll prove it through my actions. And besides — you can't leave the kingdom for a few more months, not until those sea monsters move on."
Kael let out a genuine laugh.
"You really have done your homework."
"Let's make a wager," Aeren proposed, fire in his eyes. "If I can prove my worth as a future King before that time is up, you'll help me with my plans. If I fail, I'll go with you to the end of the world if I have to, and follow your lead."
Kael studied him for a long moment, seeing the shadow of the old governor in Lyra's loyalty, and the weight of a wounded kingdom in Aeren's eyes.
"All right. We have a wager. But you know we have to survive these next few months first. And I've already made a rather large purchase of ballistae."
"Yes," Aeren agreed with a smile. "We'll have to put them to good use for a while."