The old warehouse smelled of rust and rain. Wind moaned through shattered windows, and rain tapped its own rhythm on the tin roof. It wasn't a battlefield—not yet—but Kirion treated it like one.
"Again," he said, stepping back, palms open.
His daughter stood in front of him, breathing hard. Sweat glistened along her hairline, her shoulders tense. The staff in her hands trembled, not from fear—but fatigue.
She lunged.
He parried, turned, swept her legs gently with his foot. She hit the floor with a grunt.
"Better," he said, helping her up. "But you hesitated."
"Only because I knew you wouldn't let me win," she replied, rolling her shoulder.
Kirion smiled faintly. She was learning faster than he expected.
For weeks now, she had been the ghost in the wires—crippling surveillance, rerouting enemy drones, intercepting military chatter. But Kirion knew war didn't care how skilled your fingers were on a keyboard. War had claws. And it would come close.
That's why he was teaching her what only the streets had taught him: how to read danger in a breath, how to move with the earth, how to strike before being struck.
The next hour passed in silence. They moved like twin shadows—sweeping, stepping, blocking, striking. No words. Just rhythm. Just trust.
As dusk crept in, they collapsed onto crates and shared a bottle of water.
She leaned back, catching her breath. "Do you ever wish you could've taught me something else?" she asked. "Something normal?"
Kirion looked at her for a long time. "Every damn day," he said.
She nodded. "Me too."
Silence again. But it was honest. And in that honesty, something powerful grew: not just survival, but strength. Not just skill, but a bond.
That night, she patched up a scratch on his arm without a word, hands steady. He tucked a blanket over her shoulders when she nodded off by the fire.
Lessons from the front didn't end with combat. They ended in small kindnesses, quietly shared between warriors who happened to be family.