“Roughly.”
“Roughly.” I set down my fork. “How do you ‘roughly’ know your age? Did they not have calendars in the sixteenth century?”
“Time moves differently when you’re immortal.” Something flickers across his face. “Decades blur together. Centuries pass. Eventually, you stop counting.”
There’s weight behind those words. Loss. Loneliness.
I pick up my fork again. Don’t push. Some doors aren’t ready to be opened.
After breakfast, I explore the cabin more thoroughly while Drayke cleans up—which he insists on doing, despite my protests. Behind a false wall in the back room, I find what I’m looking for.
Grandma’s real weapons cache.
It’s larger than I expected. Swords of various lengths, their blades gleaming despite their age. Daggers with blades that could split a hair. And more—throwing knives, a mace, what appears to be a genuine battle axe.
The walls are lined with them. Rows and rows of weapons, organized by type, each one maintained with obvious care. This isn’t a collection. It’s an arsenal.
What were you preparing for, Grandma? What did you know was coming?
“Your grandmother was well-prepared.” Drayke’s voice comes from behind me.
I don’t jump. I’m getting used to him appearing silently.
“She was a lot of things I never knew about.” I run my fingers over a sword hilt, testing the grip. “Did you know her?”
“We met. Once.” He moves past me, selecting a blade with practiced ease. “She was... formidable.”
“That’s one word for her.” I pull a sword from the rack. It’s heavier than I expected, but balanced. “She made really good pie too.”
His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Come. We train outside.”
The clearingby the stream is bathed in morning light.
I stand in the center, sword in hand, trying to remember everything I’ve seen in movies about sword fighting. Feet apart. Blade up. Look menacing.
Drayke circles me. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that suggests he’s not entirely happy about this arrangement.
“If you’re so worried about my survival,” I say, tracking his movement, “then teach me to fight properly.”
“I don’t train humans.”
“Good thing I’m apparently not entirely human.”
He stops circling. Those eyes fix on me—intense, evaluating.
“Show me what you know.”
I run through the basic movements I’ve taught myself. A slash. A thrust. A clumsy attempt at a parry. It feels wrong—awkward, off-balance—but I push through anyway.
When I finish, breathing hard, he’s staring at me with an expression caught between horror and amusement.
“Your footwork is terrible.” He finally puts me out of my misery. “You’ll trip over your own feet before an enemy gets close enough to kill you.”
“Then fix it.” I plant my feet, refusing to be embarrassed. “Instead of being a smug spectator.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He sighs.
“Once.” He steps into the clearing, every movement predatory grace. “I’ll show you once.”
