A year had passed since their training began. The passing seasons left their mark scars on their bodies, calloused hands, and minds slowly forged like steel.
Bastien was now almost as tall as Lazhar. His shoulders had broadened, his body had become solid and firm. His face still held traces of youth, but his eyes were different. He no longer looked like a child, but a teenager who understood himself and the world around him. Arthur had also changed. He was still shorter than Bastien, but his body was muscular, and his movements wilder. He spoke faster now, and with less patience.
That morning, the backyard of the shop echoed with the clinks of metal and the occasional spark. On a long workbench, Bastien was assembling a rifle of his own design. His hands moved steadily, fully focused on the trigger mechanism and internal parts. Lazhar stood beside him, watching in silence.
"You're getting the hang of it," Lazhar said as he flipped the rifle over and checked the barrel. "The barrel's straight, the trigger's light. But most importantly, you're starting to understand the logic behind it."
Bastien nodded without looking up. "If I just copy someone else's design, I won't learn anything. I need to know why each part is the way it is and what happens if I change it."
"That's how you really understand a weapon. Not just by building it, but by knowing it. Every weapon has its own nature," Lazhar said.
Arthur, sitting at the edge of the bench and sharpening a short axe, chimed in, "My axe only has one purpose. Crack skulls, fast."
Lazhar glanced at Arthur before returning his attention to the rifle. "That's also a kind of nature. Some weapons wait. Others hunt."
Bastien was adjusting the scope he'd built himself. He imagined a target across the wall, calculating firing distance and wind direction.
"I don't care how fast I can kill," he said. "What I want is control. If I know everyone's position, the wind's direction, the shadows, and the sound of footsteps, I can shape the battlefield before the first shot."
Lazhar didn't respond right away. He looked at Bastien a little longer than usual.
"You're not building a weapon," he said at last. "You're building a system."
Arthur chuckled. "As long as mine can knock people out or make them give up, I'm happy."
Bastien kept his eye on the scope. "It's not time to use all this yet. But when that time comes, I want to be ready."
Lazhar placed the rifle inside a wooden case. "When that time comes, don't just be ready. Make sure you're the one shaping the wind on the battlefield."
***
POV Elyndra (Year 1509)
Elyndra stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror hanging in the storage room behind the Auction House. Her face looked thin and pale, but her eyes remained sharp. As long as her eyes stayed open, nothing was over.
Every day, she observed.
The changing guards, their walking patterns, the keys on their belts, the cracks in the walls, and the voices that echoed late at night. She didn't write anything down. It was all memorized, fueled by hatred.
When she was caught stealing a knife and punished for it, she felt no regret. A wound on the hand was better than surrender.
Some slaves whispered rumors. About a legendary fugitive reappearing. About a young admiral who might come to the West Blue.
Elyndra heard them and kept them close.
She wasn't waiting for a hero. But she knew chaos meant opportunity. If something big was coming, she wanted to be in the middle of it. Not as a victim, but as the one who escaped and never looked back.
I don't need saving, she thought. But if the storm comes, I'll ride it. When everything's in disarray, I'll be gone.
She touched the fresh scar on her cheek. It hadn't fully healed, but she didn't feel weak.
And when I return, she thought, I won't carry this name anymore. I'll come back with a name that silences them all. Not as a slave. But as an executioner.