Dastarn couldn't believe his ears. The words that escaped his son's mouth left him dumbfounded. Ryn, who had always shown disdain for any kind of such demanding activities, in particular martial arts or hunting techniques, was now asking his father to teach him how to use swords. It was a complete turnaround.

"What did you just say?" Dastarn asked, his voice tinged with a mix of surprise and curiosity. He needed to hear those words again, to make sure he wasn't imagining things.

Ryn, slightly annoyed by his father's delayed response, repeated his request.

"I said, can you teach me how to use swords?"

Dastarn's heart swelled with joy. His son, who had never asked him for any favors before, had finally reached out to him.

But even amidst his excitement, Dastarn couldn't help but wonder about the sudden shift in Ryn's interest from books to swords.

"But why this sudden interest in swords?" Dastarn inquired, eager to understand the reason behind his son's newfound fascination.

He wanted to delve deeper into Ryn's mind, to uncover the driving force behind this unexpected request.

Ryn turned around, his expression hinting at a hint of frustration.

"Okay, okay. What's with the look?" Dastarn said with a hint of a tease.

"I just want to learn, that's all." Ryn retorted, his voice carrying a touch of exasperation.

Dastarn chuckled, realizing that he might have been overwhelming his son with questions.

"Alright, I'll teach you what I know," he conceded, his excitement still palpable.

"But first, you need to work on your footwork and build your body. If you want to wield great swords like your father, you need to handle heavy weapons."

As Dastarn rambled on, his words tumbling out with little thought, Ryn interrupted him, displaying a level of maturity beyond his years.

"Any type of sword is enough, father. I don't mind," he interjected, his tone sincere and determined.

Dastarn paused, contemplating his son's words. Perhaps Ryn was not yet ready to handle a great sword, considering his young age.

'It wouldn't be appropriate to hand him a weapon twice his size'.

"In that case," Dastarn began, his voice softer and more thoughtful, "we'll start with something simpler and easier for you to handle. But first, we'll focus on mastering your footwork."

Ryn's curiosity was piqued, and he listened attentively, like a child eagerly awaiting treats and sweets. Dastarn couldn't help but feel a warm sense of nostalgia, realizing that his son was still just a young child at heart.

"Swords are considered the king of weapons for a reason," Dastarn continued, adopting a more serious tone. He shifted from being a playful father to a seasoned warrior, eager to impart his knowledge.

"Mastering the art of wielding a sword is akin to mastering half of all weapons. Once your footwork is honed, we'll start with a short sword as your weapon of choice. And if you want to truly learn through experience, you'll have to accompany me on hunts."

Ryn nodded, mirroring his father's seriousness. "Okay, I'm ready for that," he replied, determination gleaming in his eyes.

"Then we'll start tomorrow, right away," Dastarn declared, with a sense of urgency in his voice. He remembered that he might leave for the expedition the day after tomorrow, unsure of its duration.

"I'll increase your morning training routine to test your limits, and we'll take it from there."

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"I'll be leaving for an expedition the day after tomorrow. I'm not sure how long it will take, but before I go, I'll create a new training schedule for you,"

Dastarn explained, his voice tinged with a hint of anticipation and uncertainty. He wanted to make sure Ryn could continue his training even in his absence.

"I'll also explore double sword techniques or modify my own techniques to mimic dagger techniques."

As the mention of daggers slipped from Dastarn's lips, his demeanor changed in an instant. The once-smiling and doting father vanished, replaced by a cold and distant aura.

Unbeknownst to him, memories he had long buried began resurfacing, threatening to consume him. A terrifying killing intent leaked from Dastarn, but just as it neared Ryn, his son's urgent call broke the spell.

"Father?!" Ryn's voice pierced through the air, jolting Dastarn back to reality.

"Oh, yes. Where was I?" Dastarn asked, his voice regaining its usual warmth as he shoved aside the unwanted thoughts that had momentarily plagued his mind.

He refocused on his family, on protecting them and being present in the moment.

"Dagger techniques," Ryn replied, sensing the fleeting change in his father's expression. The curiosity burned within him, wondering what had caused such a chilling and malevolent aura to flicker across his father's cheerful visage.

Little did Ryn know. He had never delved into his parents' backgrounds or their stories.

They had never brought it up, and he had never asked.

The truth was, he had been too preoccupied with his own problems, an unusual burden for a child of his tender age.

But now, witnessing his father's reaction, Ryn's curiosity ignited.

He yearned to uncover the hidden layers of his parents' lives.

"Yes, dagger techniques," Dastarn affirmed, his mind now focused on the matter at hand.

"I'll modify my techniques to suit two short swords instead of a great sword."

"Now, let's go and eat. We should wake up your mother if she's still sleeping," Dastarn suggested, steering the conversation away from the intense training discussion.

The resurgence of painful memories had dampened the joyous moment he had been sharing with his son.

"I couldn't hear any noise when I came in earlier," he added, his concern evident.

Dastarn hoped that Ryn hadn't noticed the turmoil that had briefly consumed him.

He let out a heavy sigh, silently praying that his observant and intellectually mature son would either overlook it or find a way to understand.

*****************************

Squeak…

Squeak…

Squeak…

A steady, rhythmic creaking emanated from the old wooden rocking chair on the front porch. As Retta slowly rocked back and forth, the sound was almost hypnotic in its repetitiveness.

The rockers scraped lightly against the floorboards with each gentle motion. There was a hollow wooden timbre to the noise, a subtle echo coming from inside the chair itself.

Over the years, the chair had developed its own unique voice. The planks of wood had settled into their familiar pattern of flexing and releasing. The joints had loosened just so. No other chair sounded quite like this one when set into motion.

Under her weight, certain spots would cry out with mini protesting shrieks. But the noises blended together harmoniously, a mellow singing of aged material.

Now and then a small pop interrupted the rhythm, like joints setting after a long rest.

A soothing white noise accompanied each pass as the rockers whisked back and swept forward in an intuitive waltz.

Retta found the creaking positively meditative, a relaxing soundtrack to the views beyond the porch.

It was home; it was memory; it was the comfortable passing of time.

The sounds told the story of countless others who had sat thus and enjoyed that very same chair through the seasons and years. Its voice was part of the porch's rhythm now, as comforting and familiar as an old friend.

As the soothing sounds surrounding her slowly dissipated, Retta fluttered open her eyes, curiosity guiding her gaze towards the door.

With deliberate movements, she allowed her head to follow suit, only to gently return it to its prior position.

Tilting her head backward, she took a moment to collect her thoughts, her mind a cauldron of secrets and hidden intentions. And then, with an undecided air, she began to rock once more in her chair, thoughts mingling with the rhythmic motion.

After what seemed like an eternity, she abruptly ceased her rocking, as though she had reached her daily quota of this strange ritual.

Rising from her seat, she cast a fleeting glance around, as if bidding farewell to the chair itself, and gracefully made her way back into the house.

Succumbing to the call of her parched throat, Retta ventured into the kitchen, a single glass of water becoming her solace.

Quenching the physical thirst, she felt a deeper longing within her being, a thirst impossible to satisfy. A hollow ache that drove her deeper into the dimly lit corner of the living room, where a chair, seemingly awaiting her arrival, beckoned.

It was in this secluded alcove that Retta retrieved a mysterious black envelope, its seal displaying a phoenix adorned in feathers of pure ebony.

Breaking the seal with cautious deliberation, she unfolded the white parchment concealed within. Eyebrows furrowing in contemplation, her gaze fell upon the written words.

"No movements from there yet, hmm? Good. And the nobles have finally completed their preparations. The storm is upon us."

Allowing the words to permeate her thoughts, Retta completed her reading, her eyes gleaming with purpose. Slowly but decisively, she approached the flickering fireplace, a vessel of both warmth and unseen secrets.

With a flick of her wrist, she cast the opened letter into the dancing flames, its existence reduced to mere ashes.

A hush fell over the living room as Retta's actions intensified.

The central table was moved aside with measured precision, revealing a hidden purpose beneath the fabric of everyday life. Rolling back the carpet, she revealed a concealed trapdoor, concealed to all but those initiated into her clandestine world.

From a delicate necklace nestled against her bosom, Retta withdrew a key, emanating an air of antiquity and mystery.

Tenderly inserting it into the hidden lock, she felt the weight of anticipation as the mechanism shifted with a discernible click.

Retrieving the key from its captive state, she turned to face the beckoning fireplace once more.

With purpose in her stride, her hand reached towards a chamberstick, balancing a single candle upon its frame.

This single source of illumination became her guide as she approached the now unlocked entrance, standing in front of the closed door with unwavering determination.

A single tap of her sole against the floor caused the door to glide open, revealing a hidden stairwell that delved into the depths below.

Without hesitation, Retta embarked upon this hidden passage, her every step cloaked in secrecy. As she descended further into the abyss, the door silently sealed itself behind her, leaving the living room devoid of any trace of her presence, like a forgotten whisper in the wind.