I drank.
Then I ate.
Without rushing. Without trying to satisfy hunger.
Each sip, each bite, beca a ritual. A full act, anchored in the present. There was no urgency. Not anymore. The world, for the first ti in a long while, seed suspended around .
I let the wine flow slowly over my tongue, flooding my palate with a soft, complex warmth — almost carnal. It was an old wine, thoughtful, structured. It had mory. Depth. It opened silently, revealing its layers one by one, like a story told in the dark, by the embers of a forgotten fire.
I drank, cup after cup, and each pour held the weight of a fragnt of peace.
Around , the desert stretched like a sea of petrified gold. The dunes rippled in the gloom, caressed by the wind like by an ancient hand. There was nothing left to fear. Nothing left to prove.
The fire crackled gently at my side, like a soothed heart. And Lysara, a few steps away, packed up in silence, not disturbing the night’s balance. She said nothing. She gave that mont. That rare luxury: the right to simply be there.
My eyes slowly drifted toward the horizon. That sky... that celestial do, vast and still, pierced with thousands of stars, wrapped around completely. A cloak of darkness embroidered with gold, laid on my shoulders like an invisible crown.
So stars twinkled insistently, as if trying to tell sothing. Others remained still, calm, eternal, indifferent. A divine dust suspended between void and mory.
And I... emptied the bottle. Calmly. Like finishing a beloved book, slowing down toward the end to stretch the mont.
I drank. I ate.
And for the first ti in weeks... maybe months... I wasn’t thinking about tomorrow, or the threats, or the vows made under fire’s pressure.
I was simply thinking about now.
About her.
About the wine.
About the sand under my boots.
About the stars.
And about that strange feeling — fragile, almost shy — slowly settling in my chest: peace.
— Aaah... adventure... how good it is, I murmured, my voice a little drawling, softened by alcohol and quiet.
Those words escaped without preditation, like a happy sigh between two sips, too sincere to be held back.
Before , the fire cast amber reflections over the dunes, drawing wavering shadows like dancing mories.
— It’s true, Lysara replied, without even turning from the flas. The sky is beautiful. Since I’ve traveled with you, I’ve seen so many places.
Her voice was calm. Smooth. Disarmingly obvious. As if she wasn’t stating a fact, but recalling a sacred mory.
I smiled.
A true smile, slow, wide, sincere. The alcohol slipped gently through my veins like a warm river. Not yet enough to cloud my mind, but just enough to heighten my senses, amplify the warmth in my chest, make each word, each glance, each shared breath vibrate more strongly.
— We really have seen places, I said. And all of them... completely different.
I almost laughed just thinking about it. The reeking swamps of Velmoria, the burning slopes of Zagnaroth, the frozen cliffs of the north, the forgotten ruins, the cities with screaming towers. Extre, incoherent, magical places. Each one left a scar on my soul. And each one had marked hers too.
She nodded softly, eyes still fixed on the fire.
— Yes. And the most important thing...
She paused briefly.
— ... is that every ti, I was with you, Dad.
Silence fell.
Heavy. Sacred.
Dad.
She had said it.
Not in a storm, not in danger, not on the edge of a cliff or in the middle of battle. She said it here, in peace, in the fire’s golden glow, in the clear night, between sand and stars.
I froze.
The cup still raised, held halfway, as if the wine itself didn’t dare disturb the mont. My breath caught in my throat. A beat was missed. Then another. The emotion didn’t creep in slowly. It hit . Full force. Brutal. Total. Like an invisible blade sliding beneath the armor.
I wasn’t ready.
I thought I felt my legs weaken for a second. Not from fatigue. Just the impact. The weight of that word. That word I had hoped to hear without daring to ask for it.
My Lysara...
The sa girl who once lived in silence, in mistrust, in shadows. The one who saw the world as a trap. The one I had to ta without ever caging. The one I had fed, trained, ard. The one I had chosen — without her ever asking.
And she... she had chosen too.
No drama. No cry. Just a word. Given.
Dad.
She had gone back to cooking, focused, unshaken. As if she hadn’t noticed the tremor she’d just caused. Or maybe she had. Maybe she knew. And, true to herself, she chose to disappear behind a mundane gesture. To shield herself in action.
She was slicing an unknown fruit. Its flesh was pearly, gleaming, almost translucent. Under the razor-thin blade of her knife, the pulp opened with the grace of crystal. The juice gathered in slow drops, like pearls of light fallen from a dream.
I stood up.
Not with a jolt. Not abruptly.
I rose with that slowness reserved for monts that matter. Filled with a new tenderness. A warmth I hadn’t planned, hadn’t armored, hadn’t seen coming.
And I walked toward her.
Arms slightly open.
Ready to embrace.
Ready to hold.
Like a father.
Like an unard man.
Like a happy fool.
When I got close enough, slow, open, vulnerable in that rare gesture of tenderness, she turned her head slightly.
Just a glance over her shoulder.
And drove the knife straight into my arm.
The blade slid in without resistance, between the shoulder fibers and the tendon, where flesh yields easily. A burning flash shot through — not explosive pain. No. A sharp pain. Surgical. A thread of fire slipped beneath the skin. A clean, precise, intentional bite.
I froze.
The next instant, my eyes t hers.
Calm.
Clear.
Without anger.
And I laughed.
A brief burst, strangled, broken by shock and surprise. More a breath than a laugh. A spasm of clarity.
Naive.
The word echoed in my skull like a silent slap. I had let my guard down. Willingly. Foolishly. Carried by the wine, the fire’s softness, the shadow of the stars, and above all... that word.
"Dad."
The word she had slipped in like a blade sharper than the knife.
She had planned everything.
The al.
The wine.
The gift.
The mont.
The fruit — yes, I could feel it now. Its strange taste, its floral sweetness... masked sothing. A subtle, ancient substance. Not deadly. But paralyzing. A slow, creeping venom. My arm was already growing heavy. My fingers, losing precision. My breath, deeper. My heart, slowing. Everything was stretching. Sinking.
She wasn’t playing, this ti.
She wasn’t testing.
She wanted to win. For real.
Not for sport. Not for honor. Not for praise between sparring bouts.
No. She wanted to defeat . Entirely. Definitively.
She had prepared.
For how many days? Weeks? How many gestures, words, silences had been traps, strategies? She had watched . Studied . And waited. For the perfect mont. The breaking point. The crack in the armor.
And she found it.
And still...
I smiled.
A real smile. Not arrogance. Not rage.
A proud smile.
Because she had understood. Because she rembered my lessons. Because she wasn’t just a student anymore. A ward.
She had beco an opponent.
Worthy.
Terrifyingly so.
And in the poison creeping through my veins, in the sharp pain under my skin, in this subli and calculated betrayal, there was...
a kind of love.
Twisted. Fierce. But real.
I watched her step back a few paces, her movents slow, controlled, almost ceremonial. Her armor closed around her like a dream of war. The plates of Noctifere, dark and shimring, slid over her hips, her flanks, her arms, fitting her like living skin.
Each segnt glead with a near-liquid shimr, rippling in the moonlight like obsidian heated white-hot. There were no cries, no roars, no blinding lights — just a whisper of energy. A silent rise in power. Relentless.
Her eyes, when she looked at , were no longer those of a student. Not even a partner.
They were the eyes of a rival.
They shone. With a fixed light. Inflexible. A naked determination, without anger, without hatred, without wasted emotion.
And I...
I was proud.
Proud of her.
Proud of that creature standing under the stars, that little demon I had seen crawl, tremble, survive — now standing tall, weapon in hand, ready to defeat without hesitation.
My daughter.
My Lysara.
She had gotten .
And not by accident.
Not by luck.
She got because she chose to.
She gave one last look, leaning slightly to the side — that feline, defiant gesture she kept when she was pleased with herself. A crooked smile crossed her face, a mix of hidden tenderness and burning pride.
Her gaze, at that precise mont, was that of a mischievous child... and a victorious warrior.
— That’s right, Dad, she whispered. I got you this ti. I’m going to... definitely win.
Dad.
The word rang in my skull like a sacred bell.
But this ti, it didn’t break .
It didn’t surprise .
It resonated. Fully. Completely. Like a truth revealed. Like a na finally accepted.
I slowly raised the cup one last ti.
My numbed arm trembled slightly. My breath grew heavier. My heart, slowed by the poison, beat like a drum in a hollow cathedral.
But I drank.
I drank because I had to.
Because I couldn’t waste it.
Not this wine.
Not this mont.
Not this gift.
It was her first.
Her first true present.
The first free act of this family we had forged in blood, in stone, and in shared silences.
So I swallowed the last sip as one speaks a vow.
Slowly.
With respect.
With love.
And as I set the cup down on the sand, in deep silence, I felt warmth slide down my arm. Too vivid, too dense to be just wine.
Blood.
The knife had been pulled out. I didn’t know when, or how.
Maybe while I looked at the sky.
Maybe while I looked at her.
The red liquid spilled from the wound, fluid, free, and was instantly caught by the wind. It danced a mont in the air, suspended like droplets of fire, then scattered in a quiet breeze, carried away by the desert’s breath.
A rain of war beneath a sky of stars.
She said nothing more.
Her Noctifere armor pulsed gently, beating like a heart of stone deep in an abyss.
And I...
Paralyzed, bit by bit, muscles numb, limbs already betraying my will... I stood.
Dignified.
Silent.
Proud.
Ready to begin the fight.
Perhaps not to win.
But to acknowledge that war, that night, was also a form of love.
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