CHAPTER 157: THE ONE WHO RAISED ME

Ariston (Past)

I still remember the way the cold bit at my fingertips, the way my breath fogged in the air as I tried to keep the blade steady. My arms ached. My shoulders were on fire. And Rael just stood there, arms folded, watching me like a hawk circling something wounded.

"You’re gripping too tight again," he said, voice calm but edged like the sword I was holding. "Loosen up or your wrist’ll give out before your opponent does."

I let out a shaky breath and adjusted my hold on the hilt.

We were deep in the forest then, days away from any village, sleeping in half-rotted shelters and hunting whatever we could find. I was maybe ten, maybe eleven. I’d stopped keeping track by then. But Rael—he was solid. Older, sharp-eyed, always knowing where to step, what to say, what not to say.

I didn’t trust people. Not after everything. But Rael... Rael didn’t ask questions I didn’t want to answer. He just handed me a blade one morning and said, "If you’re going to survive, you need to learn how to use this."

So I learned.

The mornings always started with drills. Repetition, sweat, bruises. The sword was too big for me at first. Rael had shaved it down, ground the edges dull so I wouldn’t slice my own hand off. Later he gave me a dagger too, one that fit in my palm like it belonged there. We’d train with both—cut, block, pivot.

Again. Again. Again.

He’d correct my stance with a tap to the leg or a quick barked command.

"Keep your knees bent. You’re not a tree—don’t plant your feet like one." He would circle around me

"Eyes up. The blade’s not the only thing trying to kill you." Watch me with sharp eyes

"Move like you mean it. Like you want to stay alive." Always making sure I didn’t make mistakes.

At night, we’d sit by the fire. Sometimes we didn’t speak at all. Other nights he’d tell me stories—not the kind in books, but real ones. About the cities, the wars, the people he’d known. His voice was always low, steady. He never talked much about himself. But the way he moved, the way he fought—it told me enough. He’d seen things. Survived worse.

It was the first time in years I didn’t feel like a stray dog scavenging scraps in the orphanage.

He never said he cared. I never said I needed him. But he taught me how to sharpen a blade. How to track a deer through the underbrush. How to hold a weapon like it was an extension of my will.

More than that—he showed me how to be something other than scared.

I started to look forward to his voice. To his steady hands correcting mine. To the rare moments he smiled, just slightly, when I got something right. When I landed a blow that actually made him take a step back, he grinned and said, "Now you’re starting to feel it."

***

The fire crackled low between us, throwing orange light across the mossy clearing. Smoke coiled lazily into the branches overhead. The forest had gone still for the night, save for the distant hoot of an owl and the pop of sap inside the logs we sat on. I was chewing on a chunk of fish, burned slightly on one side, but still the best thing I’d eaten in days. Probably because I caught it myself.

I had gotten better at hunting.

Rael sat across from me, hunched slightly, sharpening one of his knives with slow, practiced strokes. He hadn’t said much since dinner started, but that wasn’t unusual. He didn’t talk unless there was something to say.

I glanced over at him. "Hey," I said, holding up the last bit of fish on my stick. "Y’want the rest?"

He looked up from the blade, one brow lifting like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Not the fish offer—he rarely turned down food—but the word before it.

"’Hey’?" he repeated. "What is this ’hey’?"

I blinked. "What?"

"That’s what you keep calling me. ’Hey.’ Like I’m some stray dog or a rusty shovel." It was true. I don’t call him by his name or address him properly at all.

I smirked a little, biting off the edge of my fish. "You never told me what to call you."

"I did," he muttered. "Twice."

I shrugged. "Didn’t remember." I lied.

Rael rolled his eyes, setting the knife aside. "Fine. Suit yourself. Be uncivilized. See if I care."

I offered him the fish again and this time he took it. We ate in silence for a while, just the fire snapping and a breeze rustling the leaves. I watched him carefully, like I always did—learning without being told to. The way he kept one ear tuned to the dark. The way his hand never strayed far from his dagger, even when he looked relaxed.

After a few minutes, I stood up to stretch and he got up to leave. I guess we were retiring for the night. But as he was walking away I noticed the fire still glowing hot and hungry in the pit.

"Hey," I said again as I brought my arms down. "You didn’t extinguish the fire."

That did it.

He looked up at me slowly, squinting like I was an itch he couldn’t reach. "Call me anything else," he said, voice dry but sharp. "Anything. Call me ’Old Man.’ Call me ’Grump.’ Call me ’Lizard-breath.’ Just not ’hey.’ I’m not a goat."

I sat back down quickly, flushing a little. "Sorry," I mumbled.

Rael didn’t say anything, just picked up a stick and came back to stir the coals.

I hesitated, watching the flames dance between us. My chest felt tight for a reason I did understand. The words stuck in my throat like dry bread.

I’ve been annoying him, calling him ’hey’ for a reason. Because there was something else I wanted to call him but I was afraid he would never allow it.

I kept my eyes on him

The gulped

It’s now or never.

Then I said it, too soft the first time. I swallowed and tried again.

"Dad."

He froze, just for a moment. The fire lit the edge of his face, catching the way his eyes flicked to me and then back to the embers.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t say anything right away. But his voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter than usual.

"’Bout time," he said.

And that was it.

That’s when he became my father.