Awakening from unconsciousness, Tristan found himself lying on a bed in a small, unfamiliar room. A single window loomed above his head, allowing only a sliver of light to seep through. With his eyes barely open, he scanned his surroundings—his vision blurred, his thoughts sluggish. A rusted bucket sat a few feet away, a worn-out door stood in the distance, and a broken light bulb dangled precariously from the ceiling. These were the only details he could make out in his brief survey of the room.
Is this... a prison cell? he wondered, running a weary hand through his aching head.
The door creaked open, its slow movement heightening his sense of unease. Instinctively, he attempted to summon his warrior.
"Killington… come out," he whispered.
No response.
His heart pounded as the door continued to inch open. Though deprived of his soldier's presence, Tristan readied himself for combat. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, rising cautiously to his feet. His stance—intended to resemble that of a seasoned boxer—was flawed, riddled with openings that a skilled opponent could easily exploit.
Then, the door fully opened, revealing a familiar face. Cold, unreadable eyes. Silver hair cascading past emotionless features.
"Amelia Green?" he muttered, his voice laced with incredulity. "You're kidnapping people now?"
She stepped inside, a tray in her hands—laden with food and water. Without a word, she walked to his side and gently placed it on the ground before settling next to him.
Her silence unsettled him.
She leaned in, her delicate hands reaching for his face before gliding upward to his scalp.
"My mother taught me that this soothes the mind and body," she whispered, her fingers pressing gently into his skin as she massaged his head.
Her touch worked like magic. With each stroke, the pounding in his skull faded, his rigid muscles loosening under her care. A single tear welled in Tristan's eye as memories surfaced—memories not entirely his own.
The Lazy Man's past bled into his own. A vision of himself as a child, lying in his mother's lap while she ran her fingers through his hair.
Her voice, warm and tender, echoed in his mind.
"I will always be with you, my dear son."
"You lied!" Tristan burst out suddenly, his voice breaking.
Amelia froze, concern flickering across her otherwise impassive face. In that moment, she saw something few ever did—his weakness.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice quieter now.
She rose, walking toward the door before finally speaking.
"It was obvious you were in pain," she said, her voice steady yet soft. "I may seem like someone devoid of emotion, but I know pain when I see it—and you are in pain."
With that, she left.
Tristan's gaze fell to the tray on the ground. The sight of food stirred a growl from his stomach, pulling a chuckle from his lips.
"Pain, huh? You don't know the half of it."
After finishing his meal, he stepped out of the room and into a stunning establishment bathed in warm light. Tables sprawled across the floor, surrounded by patrons engaged in conversation, laughter, and the clinking of tankards. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol and the lively hum of a well-frequented bar.
Amelia brought me to a bar?
"I didn't expect a girl like her to indulge in such things at a young age," he murmured under his breath.
As he navigated the room, weaving between tables, he felt it. A shift in the atmosphere. The weight of a hundred glares pressing down on him—filled with malice, contempt, disgust.
Those eyes… He had seen them before.
Then, as he passed one particular table, a rotund man seated there met his gaze. Without hesitation, the man sneered—and spat directly onto Tristan's shoe.
Tristan stopped. His expression darkened. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the offender.
"Apologize."
The room fell silent.
Then, the man erupted into laughter—a guttural, mocking sound that echoed through the bar.
"Me? Apologize to you?" he sneered. "I don't bow to sniveling nobles."
A flicker of fury ignited within Tristan. His fists clenched at his sides. Those shoes… they had been a gift. And now, they had been desecrated.
"Killing—"
"Stop causing a disturbance in my bar!" a commanding voice boomed from above.
Tristan turned his attention to the second floor, where a man stood overlooking the crowd. Unlike the unruly patrons below, he was dressed in a finely tailored suit, his dark brown skin accentuated by the crisp black of his attire. A monocle rested on his left eye, his white gloves pristine. He exuded an air of refinement—one that, to Tristan, felt almost theatrical.
"Hey, kid. Come up here," the man ordered.
Tristan hesitated before complying, ascending the staircase near the entrance. Moments later, he found himself in a private room. Two couches sat opposite each other, a modest distance apart. Amelia occupied one, sipping tea with her usual composure. The monocled man sat on the other, legs crossed, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
The man studied him. His gaze raked over Tristan's stance, his physique, his breathing—every minute detail analyzed with meticulous scrutiny.
Why is he looking at me like that?
Then, the man spoke.
"Lady Amelia… this boy is not built for combat. Surely, you could have chosen someone more suited to fighting?"
Amelia, poised with her teacup just shy of her lips, paused. Without looking up, she replied in her usual calm tone.
"You may not see it, but I do. He is special."
The man scoffed. "Well, I don't see it."
Tristan's mind swirled with questions. Was he being held captive? Or was this something else entirely?
More pressing still—had Amelia seen him summon Killington? Had she witnessed the massacre?
"How did I get here?" he asked, unable to mask the concern in his voice.
The man smirked. "That's not the question you truly want to ask. What you really want to know is… did we see?"
A cold dread gripped Tristan. His instincts screamed at him to silence them both—to erase any witnesses. But would his summoning work this time? It had failed him in the room before…
"I don't know how you managed to kill all those men," the man continued, eyes narrowing. "Especially with that flimsy body of yours. But you did."
"You don't have to worry," Amelia interjected, setting her teacup down. "Neither Darren nor I will reveal anything."
Darren rose from his seat, striding toward Tristan with an air of authority.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, extending a hand. "My name is Darren. I will be your trainer."