The Things Men Don't Say Aloud

The cold morning air hit Kain like a slap the moment he stepped outside. Frost still clung to the stone paths around Valemont Keep, the world quiet except for the distant calls of guards changing shifts.

His breath fogged in white clouds as he set into his daily jog, the cold morning air biting at his lungs with every inhale. Frost clung to the edges of the path, crunching softly beneath his boots, the quiet rhythm of his steps the only sound in the stillness.

His muscles protested almost immediately. The exhaustion from last night’s failed meditation still weighed heavily on him, layering over the accumulated strain of two relentless weeks of training. Every stride pulled at sore tendons, every movement reminding him how close his body was to its limit.

He ignored it, but his mind, however, refused to be dismissed so easily.

‘Henry…’

He could still hear the contempt in Henry’s voice, the laughter of his entourage echoing faintly in his ears. Their words did not bother him, but the reason behind them did.

“His hatred isn’t unfounded,” Kain muttered under his breath as he rounded the corner of the outer wall.

The rhythm of his footsteps steadied him.

“He grew up here. A kid with nothing, brought into Valemont as a recruit. And the first thing he learned…”

Kain exhaled sharply, his breath turning to mist.

“…was that I hated him.”

Memories that were not entirely his flashed through his mind. Henry, smaller back then, younger, his spear always just a little too big for his hands. Dirt smudged across his face, hair a mess from training he refused to give up on. His gaze lock on to Eira with open admiration.
 

His smile whenever she looked his way, laughing at her encouragement like it meant everything. Trying, in his own stubborn way, to become someone who could stand beside her.

The original Kain had seen it, seen the way they trained together, seen the smiles, the shared progress, the quiet understanding forming between them and decided to destroy it. Not because Henry did anything wrong, as his only crime was trying to improve. Earning his place one step at a time.
 

The real reason was uglier, Eira was giving him the same warmth and attention that Kain had and lost. Watching it unfold felt like staring at a life he no longer had the right to claim. It scraped at old wounds he pretended had healed, stirred memories of gentler days before his mother passed away. Days when they were close, when they did everything together until he started to push her away.

Seeing that same warmth given to someone else did not make him jealous, it made him feel replaced. So he lashed out in the only way he knew how, by trying to break the thing he could no longer bear to look at.

It started small with sharp words disguised as jokes. Casual mockery in front of others. Then harsher with public humiliation, constant belittling, pushing Henry down whenever he started to rise. Socially, verbally, physically, when no one important was looking.

Kain blinked away the bitter taste in his mouth.

“That wasn’t me,” he whispered. “But it was Kain.”

The wind brushed against his face, cold and grounding.

“Not everything changes for the better. Henry’s obsession and hatred…they’re the result of everything he’s been through. Everything Kain did to him. He’s molded by it now.”

His pace slowed slightly, footsteps crunching on frost.

“And seeing me like this...trying...must feel completely wrong.”

He sighed and picked up speed again.

“It’s jarring to everyone,” he admitted, voice faint in the morning quiet. “Because I didn’t grow up here. I didn’t live Kain’s pain or jealousy or inferiority. I only inherited the memories…not the emotions behind them.”

He touched his chest lightly.

“But where the old Kain responded with anger and resentment…”

He inhaled deeply, legs pumping harder.

“…I respond with a need to improve.”

The cold air burned his lungs, but he pushed through it.

“To be better.”

Another step.

“To drive myself forward.”

Another breath.

“To survive this world on my own terms.”

His jog turned into a run, faster, steadier, and with each stride, he felt the weight of a life not entirely his own, and the resolve to shape it anyway.

----

Sven knocked once before stepping inside Gerald’s study. The duke’s back was turned, broad shoulders illuminated by firelight as he reviewed another stack of reports.

“My lord,” Sven said with a bow.

Gerald did not look up. “Sven…how long have you known me?”
 

His tone was dry, almost irritated. “There’s no need for such pleasantries between us.”

Sven raised his head, chuckling softly. “Even so, you’re still a duke. I’m only giving you respect.”

Gerald finally turned, giving him a pointed look. “I don’t recall that respect when we were on the northern front. If I remember correctly, you were screaming at me to fall back before you ‘shoved a spear up my ass and dragged me back yourself.’”

Sven’s lips twitched into a smile. “That was then, this is now…my lord. I’ve retired from the battlefield. Someone has to be civilized.”

Gerald snorted. “Civilized, he says.”

Despite the easy banter, an unspoken understanding lingered in the room, settling comfortably in the spaces between their words. Their familiarity was not built on rank or obligation, but on years that had forged something quieter and far more enduring.

Sven was not just a butler. He was a friend, someone who been with Gerald since the beginning.

Long before he wore tailored coats and white gloves, he had stood on the battlefield as the vice commander of the Valemont Knights, a mid-level Master whose name once carried weight among allies and enemies alike. He had fought at Gerald’s side in their youth, through campaigns that had tested steel, loyalty, and survival in equal measure.

He was more than a subordinate, more than an old soldier who had chosen a quieter post. He was one of Gerald’s last living ties to the man he had been before titles, responsibilities, and losses had hardened him. One of the few men who could speak plainly to him and still be heard.

And Gerald, for all his authority, still listened when Sven spoke.

The duke finally set his pen down, rising from his desk. He walked to the sitting area near the fireplace and lowered himself onto the couch. With a gesture, he signaled Sven to sit as well.

“So,” Gerald began, gaze fixed on the flames, “tell me about Kain.”

Sven sat and interlaced his fingers. “He’s still training...relentlessly, in fact. I believe I saw him running outside the keep this morning. It’s the fifteenth day straight.”

Gerald didn’t react, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

Sven continued, “If nothing else, his determination is…unexpected. At times, I wonder if it’s truly Master Kain I’m looking at, or someone else wearing his body.”

Gerald’s jaw shifted, a small tell of internal conflict. “It’s confusing,” he admitted quietly. “But…a welcome surprise.”

Sven nodded. “He’s beginning to resemble the young master I once knew. The one who still had light in his eyes.”

Silence stretched between them not uncomfortable, but heavy with memories neither man cared to voice.

Gerald leaned back, exhaling slowly. “But is it enough?”

Sven’s eyes softened with brutal, unavoidable honesty.

“…Against Henry?” He shook his head. “No.”

Gerald’s face tightened.

“No matter how hard he trains,” Sven went on gently, “he’s still unawakened. A month is not enough to bridge the gap. Henry is a skilled mid-level adept. Even with miraculous progress…the outcome won’t change.”

Gerald stared into the fire as if searching for an answer within its shifting glow.

“Then his fate,” he murmured, “is already sealed.”

Sven turned to him, expression unreadable. “Sir…if you knew it was inevitable, why grant him the chance in the first place?”

The flames crackled sharply in the hearth, their restless light stretching long, wavering shadows across the walls.

Gerald did not answer right away.

He just watched the fire, gaze distant, as if searching the shifting embers for something that refused to take shape. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, quieter than usual, worn at the edges.

“I’m not sure myself.”

The admission lingered in the air between them.

He exhaled slowly, eyes never leaving the flames. “Maybe…I hoped he would be different. That he would show us something unexpected…something that proved I was wrong.”

Sven studied him for a moment, the lines on his face softening with understanding rather than surprise. He gave a small, measured nod.

“Well… there are still two more weeks before the trial.”

Gerald did not reply.

He leaned back into the couch instead, the leather creaking softly beneath his weight. One arm rested along the back, the other draped loosely at his side, but there was no ease in the posture, only the careful stillness of a man trying not to show how tired he truly was.

Firelight flickered across his face, catching briefly in his eyes, but the warmth never reached them. The glow only made the shadows beneath his gaze more pronounced, deepening the lines carved there by years of command, loss, and decisions that never left room for doubt, until now.
 

Uncertainty dulled his usual steadiness, and after a long silence, he let out a slow, quiet sigh that seemed heavier than the room itself.