Declan opened his eyes inside a house with a beautiful garden, surrounded by fields he knew all too well. He was dressed in Irish clothing: a light linen shirt, worn thin from years of use, and a dark wool saffron kilt that fell to his knees, fastened at the waist with leather straps. His boots, coated in dry dust, spoke of long-traveled roads and of a place where land and memory walked side by side.

  "What…?" he murmured.

  He pushed himself upright clumsily and ran his hands over the fabric, as if he needed to make sure it was real.

  "How…? My clothes…"

  Confusion made him turn in place.

  Then he saw everything.

  The place unfolded before him exactly as he remembered it: low houses of pale stone, built to withstand time and storms; gardens open to the wind, with no fences separating them from the sky; dirt paths gently descending toward the sea. The air was heavy with salt and damp grass, and beyond the fenced fields, the cliffs could be sensed—firm and silent, watching over the village as they always had.

  Declan swallowed.

  "Howth…" he whispered. "My home."

  He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, just as he had the day he was forced to leave, as if the simple act of breathing could anchor him there.

  "This scent… you never forget it… Mo bhaile," he said, a nostalgic smile forming on his face.

  Then he felt it.

  A presence.

  Instinct moved faster than thought: his hand went to his waist, searching for his sword. His fingers found nothing.

  "Ah, feck…" he muttered under his breath.

  Behind him, the air seemed to ripple. A translucent blue figure slowly manifested, as if emerging from another layer of reality.

  "Le do thoil, níl gá le foréigean," said the presence.

  (Please, violence is not necessary.)

  Declan let out a dry laugh.

  "Sea… abair sin liomsa."

  (Yeah… tell that to me.)

  The figure drifted beside him, observing the surroundings, floating as if the wind held no power over it.

  "áit deas, caithfidh mé a rá. Is dócha go gcailleann tú é."

  (Nice place, I must say. I suppose you miss it.)

  Declan did not answer right away. He looked at the village, the houses, the paths he knew better than his own hands.

  "Sea…"

  (Yes…)

  He began to walk.

  The streets were filling with people preparing for Saint Patrick’s festivities: green banners waving in the wind, laughter crossing between neighbors, tables being dragged outside, and distant music slowly waking the town. Yet as Declan moved among them, no one looked at him. He passed like a ghost—unseen, untouched. No voice called his name, no gesture acknowledged him.

  Without hesitation, he headed toward a specific place.

  There it was.

  The house.

  Modest, built of light gray stone, with a slanted roof covered in moss and a small chimney that had once breathed smoke on cold afternoons. The front garden held simple flowers and an old wooden bench worn smooth by time. It was not a large or impressive house—but it was alive. It had been lived in.

  "A sheanathair…" he whispered.

  (Grandfather…)

  "Duine tábhachtach?" asked the blue presence.

  (Someone important?)

  "Ró-thábhachtach."

  (Too important.)

  Declan approached the door. Without knocking, without any key, he opened it.

  The interior unfolded before him like an untouched memory.

  He saw himself at five years old, running through the living room, laughing, while his grandfather, William Aidan Murphy, watched from a chair with a tired but proud smile. Beside him, a young German shepherd wagged its tail eagerly, following the child’s every move.

  Declan turned his head.

  The festivities were gone.

  The sky had darkened, and a storm battered the house. Wind slammed against the windows with fury. He saw himself trembling on the rug, hugging the dog, seeking refuge in its warmth as thunder shook the world.

  "An teaghlach dlúth a bhí ann?" the presence asked.

  (Was it a close family?)

  "Sea…" Declan answered, his voice breaking. "Ba mhaith liom cónaí anseo go deo."

  (Yes… I wish I could live here forever.)

  "Cén fáth?"

  (Why?)

  The smile faded from his face.

  The scene shifted abruptly.

  Warmth vanished. The humble house was replaced by a vast, gleaming mansion—ostentatious furniture, polished surfaces, and a coldness that had nothing to do with the weather. His parents stood there: Ryan Horace Kennedy, rigid and distant, and Ciara Mara Kennedy, present yet absent, like an elegant shadow.

  Declan felt the weight of that memory fall upon him like an invisible slab.

  He saw himself small again.

  He saw himself at six years old.

  And once more, with cruel clarity, he felt what it was like to be looked at as a mistake.

  His father stood before him.

  The man was dressed with severe elegance: dark coat, spotless boots, long sideburns perfectly trimmed. Red-haired, light-eyed—eyes as cold as the steel carried by the name he bore.

  "You are a disgrace."

  Declan held the bow with hands too small for its size.

  "Your brothers have already mastered the bow. You have not."

  Declan wanted to disappear. The pressure of standing before his father was suffocating.

  "Continue your practice."

  His mother stepped forward.

  She was a beautiful woman, with deep brown eyes and dark hair carefully tied back. Her voice trembled slightly.

  "He is only a child, Ryan…"

  But his father did not look at her.

  "Weakness knows no age."

  Then he fixed his eyes on Declan.

  "Are you capable of bearing the Kennedy name, or are you not?"

  Declan lowered his gaze.

  His chest tightened.

  "Yes, Father… I am."

  "Good. Go."

  He was six years old, and his father treated him like a grown man.

  "An raibh eagla ort?" asked the blue presence.

  (Were you afraid?)

  Declan took a deep breath.

  "Eagla?" he repeated. "Bheadh sin ró-bheag mar fhocal."

  (Fear? That would be too small a word.)

  He noticed his hand trembling and instinctively gripped it.

  "Bhí uafás orm."

  (I was terrified.)

  The scene shifted again.

  Now it was the mansion’s garden.

  The air smelled of wet grass and old wood. Declan stood there alone, his hands raw. He had spent hours drawing the bow again and again, firing at the targets without hitting a single one.

  Hours like that. Hours without rest.

  The bow refused to obey him, as if rejecting his hands. Until, in one final attempt, pulling the string in desperation, the wood snapped.

  The snap struck across his cheek.

  Pain was sharp and immediate. Declan dropped to his knees. He raised a hand to his face and felt the blood.

  But he did not scream.

  He endured.

  "Ceithre huaire an chloig…" he whispered.

  (Four hours…)

  Declan stepped forward, watching his past self struggle with all his strength not to cry.

  "Ceithre huaire gan stad… agus níor éirigh liom tada."

  (Four hours without stopping… and I achieved nothing.)

  He watched himself kneeling, crying in silence, blood running down his cheek.

  "Brú… fearg… pian," the blue presence listed. "Arbh iad sin na mothúcháin a bhí agat an lá sin?"

  (Pressure… anger… pain. Were those the feelings you had that day?)

  "Ba ea."

  (Yes.)

  Then, a door opened in the garden.

  "Nach raibh tú i d’aonar?" the presence asked.

  (You weren’t alone, were you?)

  Declan slowly shook his head.

  "Ní raibh… ní raibh mé i d’aonar."

  (No… I wasn’t alone.)

  From behind the door emerged a boy with dark hair and brown eyes. He was whistling, a quiver slung over his shoulder and a bow in his hand.

  Sean Dunne Kennedy. His older brother.

  When he saw him kneeling beside the broken bow, he dropped everything to the ground without a second thought.

  "Dee!" Sean shouted as he ran toward him. "What’s wrong? What happened?"

  He dropped to his knees in front of him and gently took his face.

  "Oh God… oh God… You’re bleeding…"

  The moment Declan saw him, he couldn’t hold it back anymore.

  He broke down.

  Sean wrapped his arms around him at once, shielding him with his own body, as if he could hide him from the world.

  "Duine grá," the blue presence said. "Is dócha?"

  (A loved one. I suppose?)

  "Sean Dunne Kennedy. Mo dheartháir mór."

  (Sean Dunne Kennedy. My older brother.)

  The presence drifted closer to the scene.

  It watched as Sean cleaned the wound with his own handkerchief, hands trembling, while Declan sobbed into his shirt, clinging tight.

  "Tá sé i bhfad ó chonaic mé é…"

  (It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him…)

  And for the first time since the memory began, Declan’s voice sounded truly alone.

  The room shifted again. Now they were having dinner.

  The whole family sat around a long table of dark wood, polished enough to catch the warm glow of the lamps. His father sat at the head, rigid, back perfectly straight. His mother sat at the opposite end, hands folded over her lap, silent.

  To Declan’s left was Sean—serious, watching his father’s every movement. To his right sat his sister, úrsula Aisling Kennedy: pretty, red-haired, soft freckles across her face, brown eyes always restless.

  They looked like a family at dinner.

  In front of them, white porcelain plates held neat portions of roasted lamb, golden potatoes, and vegetables arranged with care. Steam rose slowly, yet no one hurried to eat.

  Cutlery clicked with near-mechanical precision.

  No one spoke.

  Every movement felt measured, every gesture monitored. Declan felt he wasn’t at dinner, but at a ceremony—one where hunger didn’t matter, posture did; where affection didn’t matter, the surname did.

  He stared at his plate without touching it.

  For a moment, he thought it almost resembled a family… but it felt more like a silent trial than a home.

  "There will be an archery demonstration very soon. All the families will attend. You had better not fail. The Kennedy name has already been stained once, and I will not allow it to happen again."

  "Ryan, that is enough!"

  "What? Do you want your son to become a freak? A failure like my brother?"

  "Of course you do not."

  Then he pinned Declan with his eyes.

  "Your uncle was capable, very skilled… but he was ill... Ill with a filthy weakness."

  He leaned toward Declan, angling for intimidation.

  "He threw away his life, his family and his talent for a sword. Do not make the same mistake."

  Then he pulled back slightly.

  "All Kennedys must be strong. Capable. Worthy. There is no place for the sick, nor for burdens."

  Silence fell like a slab of stone.

  úrsula shot to her feet.

  "Where do you think you are going, girl?"

  "To my room. This place is already full of shit."

  Ryan stood and slapped her.

  "Ryan!"

  "Do not use foul language at my table."

  úrsula lifted her gaze, her cheek burning.

  "This table itself is an insult. One more word will not make it any better… nor any worse."

  "You are an ungrateful child."

  "I have nothing to be grateful for. You are only my father by a whim of fate."

  And she left. Their mother went after her.

  Ryan, however, returned to his seat and slammed his hand on the table.

  "Go back to your rooms. Now."

  Sean took Declan by the arm.

  The last thing Declan heard:

  "Clement. Whisky. Now."

  "At once, sir."

  The scene faded, but the feeling remained.

  Declan and the blue presence watched from the outside, as if staring at a memory trapped in glass.

  "Bhí mé beag… agus lag."

  (I was small… and weak.)

  "Cén fáth ar mhothaigh tú mar sin?"

  (Why did you feel that way?)

  "Níor rugadh mé leis an mbronntanas don bhogha. Bhí sé fíor. Bhí mo thuismitheoirí oilte. Bhí mo dheartháireacha freisin... Ní raibh mise."

  (I wasn’t born with the gift for the bow. It was true. My parents were skilled. My brothers were too… I wasn’t.)

  Declan’s fists clenched hard.

  "Ba é mo bhrionglóid i gcónaí a bheith ar an saighdeoir ba fhearr sa teaghlach."

  (My dream was always to be the best archer in the family.)

  "An raibh sé i ndáiríre do bhrionglóid féin… nó brionglóid d’athar?"

  (Was it truly your own dream… or your father’s dream?)

  Declan fell silent.

  Before he could answer, his bedroom door opened.

  Sean was there… and his sister, úrsula.

  They approached Declan without a word. Sean offered him biscuits, still warm, as if that small gesture could mend something broken. úrsula didn’t hesitate—she carefully lifted him and sat him on her lap, wrapping her arms around him. Declan trembled. She pressed her forehead to the child’s while Sean, clumsy in the way only kids are but impossibly tender, wiped Declan’s tears with his sleeve.

  "Dad is really mean," úrsula murmured, frowning.

  "He’s always picking on Dee," Sean added. "Don’t worry, you’ll manage, little one. We believe in you."

  Declan didn’t answer. He only clung to the fabric of his sister’s dress, as if that embrace was the only solid thing left in the world.

  The blue presence stopped the scene.

  Everything froze, like a memory suspended in time.

  "Cad a mhothaigh tú nuair a bhí tú leo?" the blue presence asked.

  (What did you feel when you were with them?)

  Declan took his time before answering.

  "…Iomlán."

  (…Whole.)

  "Más rud é go mbraithfeá iomlán," the voice pressed, "cén fáth ar tharla an méid a tharla?"

  (If you felt whole, why did what happened, happen?)

  The scene changed.

  Now it was the festival.

  Laughter, murmurs, and the smell of wet grass filled the air. Declan wore his traditional clothes; the bow rested against his back and the quiver hung at his waist. In front of him: the targets. Three arrows. Four chances.

  His brothers stood to the side, giving him encouraging gestures. His mother smiled softly from the front row. His father, on the other hand, remained rigid and stern, arms crossed, surrounded by other families.

  Declan felt a thousand eyes drilled into him.

  His hands trembled. His whole body refused to obey. The bow felt heavier than usual. But then he saw Sean and úrsula’s thumbs raised. He took a deep breath.

  He shot.

  The first arrow hit the bullseye.

  A murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd. Relief flooded Declan—so strong it almost made him dizzy. His brothers cheered. His mother smiled with pride. Some spectators applauded.

  He looked at his father.

  Nothing.

  His expression didn’t change: hard, impenetrable.

  Declan’s confidence cracked, but he drew again. The second shot wasn’t perfect, but it was close. Applause followed. The third hit the target without grace, without cheers. The fourth missed.

  The silence was heavy.

  Declan looked at his father again.

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  Anger. Disapproval.

  Then his brothers ran to him, exaggerating celebrations, laughing, talking loud, as if sheer willpower could erase failure. For a moment, they almost managed it.

  But when the event ended, his father came up to him—abruptly. The slap cracked sharp in the air.

  Ryan tore the bow from his hands.

  "Is this a game to you?"

  "N-no, Father," Declan stammered.

  "What was that pathetic display?" he spat. "Were you messing about instead of training?"

  "No, Dad… I didn’t."

  Ryan seized his hand. Declan let out an involuntary sound. That caught his father’s attention; he ripped off Declan’s gloves, exposing the bandages stained with dried blood.

  "Do you see this?" he said, gripping Declan by the wrist and forcing him to look. "Do you!?"

  "Yes, Dad…"

  "This isn’t progress. It’s failure. What good is wrecking your hands if you’re going to shoot like that? Bleeding isn’t effort. It’s mediocrity."

  "It hurts… you’re hurting me."

  The grip tightened even more.

  "Hurting you? What are you going to do, cry?" he snapped. "That’s all you ever do. Whinge and cry. Don’t act like a baby. You’re a man. Grow up."

  Declan held back his tears.

  Present-day Declan and the blue presence watched from outside. His fists clenched.

  Then someone intervened.

  Ryan felt something sharp press into his back.

  "Let go of my nephew."

  Ryan obeyed reluctantly and shoved Declan aside. He turned, pouring his fury into the newcomer.

  "Liam Connor Kennedy," he growled. "I see you finally had the nerve to show your face."

  He was a red-haired man with a thin moustache, intense green eyes, and formal dark clothing with purple accents. In his hand he held a stick—enough to be a warning.

  "You haven’t changed at all," Ryan went on. "Still a sick man."

  "Good to see you too, Ryan," Liam replied with sarcasm.

  "What are you doing here? Came to disgrace the family name again, did you?"

  "You’re the same as ever," Liam said. "More worried about a surname than about people. Relax. I came to see my nephews. Not you. And from the looks of it… you’re still strong with the weak and weak with the strong."

  "You don’t get to tell me how to raise a son," Ryan shot back. "Not you. Someone who can’t even father one."

  Liam looked at him coldly.

  "If Mum and Dad were alive, they’d be deeply ashamed of you."

  Ryan’s jaw tightened.

  "No. They’d die of shame seeing their beloved son choose to bed men like some filthy degenerate."

  Liam breathed in slowly.

  "Is that how you speak to your brother?" he said, pointing. "In front of your son?"

  Ryan ignored him and looked at Declan.

  "Do you want to end up a failure like him? Then train. And do it properly."

  Then he walked away, shoulder-checking his brother as he passed, leaving a thick silence behind.

  The world dissolved like heavy fog, and when it took shape again, only a vast empty hall remained. No visible walls, no ceiling, no defined floor—just an endless stretch of bluish gloom. Declan stood there. Alone.

  In front of him, floating with unsettling calm, remained the blue presence.

  "Cad atá uait uaim?" Declan asked, voice tight.

  (What do you want from me?)

  "Cad atá uait i ndáiríre?" the presence replied.

  (What do you really want?)

  "An triail seo a chríochnú agus filleadh."

  (To finish this trial and return.)

  "An é sin atá á lorg agat?"

  (Is that what you’re looking for?)

  Declan clenched his fists. The silence weighed more than any answer.

  "Ar ndóigh. Ar mhaith leat go n-admhóinn rud éigin duit? Ceart go leor. Is fuath liom mé féin. Is fuath liom mé féin mar nár leor mé do mo theaghlach."

  (Of course. Do you want me to confess something to you? Fine. I hate myself. I hate myself because I wasn’t enough for my family.)

  "Cén fáth?"

  (Why?)

  "An bhfuil tú ag imirt cluichí?" he spat, bitter. "Tá a fhios agat cheana féin. Ní raibh mé in ann bogha a úsáid."

  (Are you playing games? You already know. I couldn’t use a bow.)

  "An é sin a chonaic tú?"

  (Is that what you saw?)

  The blue presence began to change. Its shape rippled, stretched, solidified… until it became his father’s face.

  "Was what I did to you right?" that figure asked. "Did I do it for your own good?"

  "STOP!" Declan stepped forward, furious. "Ná glac le cruth m’athar… don’t... don’t take my... m’athar shape…"

  (Don’t take my father’s shape… don’t... don’t take my... my father’s shape…)

  "Athair?"

  (Father?)

  The word rang out like a warped echo.

  The room went completely dark. The blue presence vanished, and in its place the darkness tore open like a curtain.

  A house appeared before his eyes—the same house from the beginning.

  Declan recognized it at once. Modest, built of light gray stone, with a slanted roof covered in moss and a small chimney that had once breathed smoke on cold afternoons.

  "Cad é seo…?" Declan murmured, a knot tightening in his chest.

  (What is this…?)

  "Nach é seo a bhí uait?" the invisible voice answered.

  (Isn’t this what you wanted?)

  He moved closer. He saw his child-self laugh, stumble around, bask in a warmth he no longer remembered how to feel.

  Suddenly, the scene began to rewind, like an old tape. Images sped backward until they stopped on one exact moment.

  Declan was five.

  He was crying in a park, sitting on a motionless swing. His hands trembled; his face was red. Then an old man approached.

  He wore glasses, his hair short and thinning, already gray. He was broad and strong, a long beard framing his face. He crouched in front of the boy and spoke softly.

  "Cén fáth nach raibh d’athair ann?" the blue presence asked.

  (Why wasn’t your father there?)

  The scene continued.

  "What’s wrong, my wee warrior?" the old man asked.

  "My dad… he didn’t come," little Declan said, voice cracking. ".. He said he would come see me… and he didn’t."

  The old man sighed and set a steady hand on his shoulder.

  "I’m sorry, lad. But tell me… what d’you say we go get an ice cream? Might cheer you up a bit."

  The boy looked up. The tears were still there, but a shy smile began to form.

  "Can I get strawberry?"

  "Aye. Of course you can."

  Adult Declan stepped forward, eyes wide with disbelief.

  "Bhí mé… níor chuimhnigh mé air seo…" he whispered. "An raibh sé i gcónaí ag labhairt Béarla? Cheap mé go raibh fuath aige dó."

  (I… I didn’t remember this… Did he always speak English? I thought he hated it.)

  "Nach labhair tú Béarla?" the voice asked.

  (Didn’t you speak English?)

  "Sea… is í mo theanga dhúchais í."

  (Yes… it’s my native language.)

  "Nach bhfreagraíonn sé sin do cheist?"

  (Doesn’t that answer your question?)

  Declan didn’t respond. He just watched.

  The scene moved forward slowly. Now he saw his grandfather sitting with him on a park bench, both holding ice cream. No scolding. No demands. Only silence, company… and a calm he had forgotten entirely.

  His grandfather took the little spoon and tasted a bit of the ice cream. He let it sit on his tongue for a few seconds as if weighing something important, then nodded in satisfaction.

  Declan looked up at once, frowning slightly.

  "Blasta."

  "What’s that?"

  "What’s what?" his grandfather asked, pretending not to understand.

  "‘Blasta.’"

  The old man let out a warm, low laugh—one that came from the chest more than the throat.

  "Ah… blasta." He nodded. "That’s Gaelic, lad. My mother tongue."

  Declan’s eyes widened.

  "You speak two languages?"

  His grandfather leaned back on the bench, clearly amused by the child’s amazement.

  "Of course I do, wee one." He leaned toward him, conspiratorial. "Want to hear a secret?"

  Declan nodded immediately, grin bright on his face.

  "Your mum knows it too."

  "That’s brilliant!" Declan blurted, unable to contain himself. "I want to learn it."

  His grandfather blinked, genuinely surprised.

  "Eh? D’ye really?"

  "Yeah. I do." Declan answered firmly. "I want to."

  For a moment, the old man studied him in silence, as if searching his expression for something. Then a slow, proud smile spread across his face.

  "Aye. Of course you can."

  Declan bounced a little in place, unable to hide his excitement.

  "That’s great, that’s great, that’s great!" he repeated. "How do you say strawberry in your language?"

  His grandfather lifted an eyebrow, amused.

  "Sú talún."

  "Woow!" Declan’s eyes went wide like he’d seen a magic trick. "Ss..sus... eh...Sú talún…"

  Declan watched the scene with a shaking smile. Something warm tightened in his chest, and without realizing it, a tear slid down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. He didn’t want to. That image deserved to remain exactly as it was.

  Then the scene changed.

  The vision carried him to his grandfather’s house—without him even realizing it, his refuge. The walls seemed to breathe calm, and time always moved differently there. They spent whole days learning that old language, word by word, as if each sound were a small shared treasure.

  It was there that Declan began to love his grandfather’s stories: tales of youth, hard decisions, pride, and silences. He learned the basics at first—mum, dad, brother, sister, house, dog—simple words, yet heavy with meaning far beyond language.

  And he saw something else, too.

  Whenever things grew difficult with his father, Declan ran there. Nothing needed to be said; crossing that threshold was enough to feel safe. The memory showed him and his siblings spending hours there—laughing, listening, simply existing. Sometimes his uncle appeared as well, bringing a different kind of lightness, a rest in the middle of everything.

  In some memories, his mother visited his grandfather. In those brief, fragile moments, she seemed like someone else. A good mother. Present. Warm. Declan clung to those images the way someone protects something that might vanish if stared at too long.

  "Ba mhaith liom go mbeadh na chuimhneacháin sin síoraí," he murmured.

  (I wish those moments had been eternal.)

  "An é sin a bhí uait?" the blue presence asked.

  (Is that what you wanted?)

  "Sea…" Declan’s voice broke. "Tá a fhios ag Dia cé chomh mór is a ghráigh mé é."

  (Yes… God knows how much I loved him.)

  "Cén fáth?"

  (Why?)

  Before the blue presence could intervene, the scene shifted on its own. Even she looked surprised.

  "Tuigim anois," said the blue presence.

  (I see now.)

  They were in the mansion garden. A long table sat at the center, surrounded by everyone—his grandfather, his parents, his uncle, his brothers. A complete family meal. On the surface, calm. But the air was heavy with something unseen, dense, like a storm that hadn’t decided to fall yet.

  "Níl a fhios agam cad a tharla…" Declan said, pressing a hand to his chest. "Ní cuimhin liom é. Ní féidir liom."

  (I don’t know what happened… I can’t remember it. I can’t.)

  The scene began to glitch. It wouldn’t move forward or backward. It corrupted like a damaged tape—looping fragments of the garden again and again, skipping, tearing.

  Declan grabbed his head hard. His tears were no longer silent.

  "Cad a tharla?" he asked, almost pleading. "Cén fáth ar thit gach rud as a chéile?"

  (What happened? Why did everything fall apart?)

  The blue presence seemed to understand something in that instant—something that had slipped past her until now. She stepped closer and set a careful hand on Declan’s shoulder.

  "Seo é a tharla," she said.

  (This is what happened.)

  The scene stabilized.

  They were back at the family meal. Declan was smaller. His hands were stained with sauce, and he stared at them with childish discomfort. Then he looked up—searching without knowing why—and his eyes met his grandfather’s, seated near him.

  And in that instant, everything changed.

  "Can you pass me a naipcín?" (Napkin?)

  The word landed like a blunt blow.

  Time froze around the table. A drink hung at his father’s lips. His brothers and mother tensed at once, as if they knew something irreversible had just happened. His grandfather closed his eyes slowly and let out a weary sigh—one that wasn’t new.

  "Where did you learn that?" his father’s voice asked, low and dangerous.

  Declan fell silent. With painful certainty, he knew he’d done something wrong. He didn’t understand why—he just knew.

  His father’s fist slammed into the table.

  "Answer me! Where?!"

  The crash made the plates tremble. Declan flinched, body rigid, heart hammering against his ribs.

  "That was me. I taught him," his grandfather said, standing.

  His father’s gaze swung toward him, loaded with contempt.

  "Why am I not surprised? If he’s a failure it’s because he speaks the language of failures, father-in-law."

  His grandfather looked at him with a steady calm that hurt to see.

  "D’ye think you’re a winner just for carryin’ a foreign name with two Irish name? Ye were born here, raised here… and ye hate your own tongue. Grand, that is."

  His father smiled without humor.

  "Our surname comes from a dead language spoken by farmers. You’re living in the past. Worse—the wrong city. How many speak Irish here? Anyone in the capital at all?"

  His grandfather’s eyes hardened.

  "You’re a coward. Ever since ye married my daughter I knew—just a wee boy stuck inside a bitter grown man."

  Ryan couldn’t take it anymore.

  He lunged across the table.

  The impact was brutal. Plates crashed, chairs toppled. His mother and one of his brothers tried to pull them apart—useless. The blows were clumsy, packed with years of stored rage. His older brothers jumped in too, but the fight had already spilled beyond control.

  They fell into the garden.

  There, away from the table, they kept swinging at each other like wounded beasts.

  Frozen with fear, Declan saw his brother’s bow propped against the wall. He grabbed it with trembling hands, nocked an arrow, and aimed.

  "STOP!" Declan shouted.

  Everyone turned.

  Declan stood there, eyes full of tears, bow drawn. His arms shook, but he didn’t back down.

  "Declan: drop it," his father ordered.

  "No!" Declan answered, forcing a voice that didn’t feel like his own. "Stay away from him!"

  "You’re hurting him: I don’t want to do this!" his grandfather begged.

  "You’re hurting him," Declan cried. "I don’t want to do this!"

  His father took a step back… then started walking toward him, slow and deliberate.

  "Drop it," he said coldly. "We both know you’re bad at it. You’ll never be good with a bow. Put it down before you hurt someone."

  "Why…?" Declan’s voice cracked. "Why are you like this with me? I’m trying to get better… I want you to hold me, like you do with Sean and úrsula. You never hold me. You never look at me. I try every day… till my hands hurt."

  "Dee…" his siblings whispered.

  "Declan…" his mother said, on the edge of tears.

  His father laughed—short and cruel.

  "All this for a hug? You’re a fool. You’re a failure, Declan Tavis Kennedy. Same as your uncle. Same as your grandfather. I don’t embrace weakness."

  He pointed at his sons.

  "They’re the pride of this family. What have you given me? Nothing. Only shame."

  "Ye dinnae have to follow in their footsteps, son."

  Declan squeezed his eyes shut, crying. Fear blurred his senses. His fingers slipped.

  The arrow flew.

  His father moved aside in time.

  The arrow struck someone else—his brother. It hit him in the abdomen.

  "Dee… don’t look…" he said before he fell.

  "SEAN!" his father shouted.

  His grandfather dropped to his knees beside the body, trying to help.

  Ryan spun on Declan, tore the bow from his hands, and drove a fist straight into his face.

  "Look what you did," he spat. "You shot your own brother. You’re a bloody disgrace."

  Then he ran to Sean, shoved the grandfather aside violently, and lifted Sean to carry him to emergency.

  The scene blurred.

  Hospital.

  White lights. Tight silence. Hours of waiting for an answer.

  Until a doctor finally gave it.

  It was a miracle.

  Sean survived.

  Everyone breathed again.

  When the worst passed, his father looked at Declan. And Declan… couldn’t hold his gaze.

  "I’m done with you. You’re nothing. You’re not my son."

  Then he looked at his brother and his father-in-law.

  "There you go. Your filthy blood shows."

  He grabbed Declan by the arm and shoved him toward them.

  His mother and sister said nothing. They simply followed Ryan.

  The hospital fell silent again.

  Not the silence of peace— the silence that’s left when there’s nothing left to break. Sean was safe. The immediate danger had passed. But for the grandfather, something far deeper had crossed a point of no return.

  Declan stood still. He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask about Sean. His eyes were open, but they weren’t looking at anything.

  His grandfather knew that stare.

  He’d seen it before—on men who grew up too early.

  On children no one protected in time.

  He knelt in front of Declan slowly, as if afraid any sudden movement might make him vanish. He held Declan’s face with care, but Declan didn’t react. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t cling.

  He had tried to stand up to him. He had defended his language. He had protected what he could.

  But… it hadn’t been enough.

  With cruel clarity, he understood that as long as Declan stayed near his father, there would be no refuge. Not even him. Because his presence no longer calmed—it provoked. Because his love, however real, no longer reached far enough to stop the violence.

  Declan didn’t need more endurance.

  He needed distance.

  "Liam…" the grandfather said at last, voice low. "Come here."

  Liam stepped closer, exhausted, knuckles still marked, his gaze broken.

  "Take the boy," the grandfather said. "Get him out of here."

  Liam’s mouth fell open, stunned.

  "What? No, I…"

  "Listen to me," the grandfather cut in, firm for the first time all night. "He willnae heal here. He’ll only learn to stay quiet and hate himself."

  (Listen to me. He won’t heal here. He’ll only learn to stay quiet and hate himself.)

  He glanced at Declan. The boy was still, as if he no longer fully belonged to that place.

  "I cannae protect him anymore," he continued. "If he stays, he’ll break… or become him."

  Liam pressed his lips together.

  "But to leave… so far away…"

  "That’s exactly why," the grandfather answered. "Far away, no one will force him to be someone else. They willnae make him prove a thing to deserve love."

  (That’s exactly why. Far away, no one will force him to be someone else. They won’t make him prove anything to deserve love.)

  He sighed.

  "Here, every good memory will end up tangled with fear. I dinnae want him to remember me like that. I dinnae want my voice to become an echo of this house."

  He knelt in front of Declan again.

  "Wee one…" he murmured. "Some battles are not won by stayin’."

  Declan didn’t answer. But something in his expression tightened—just barely.

  "I’d rather lose ye far away," the grandfather whispered, "than watch ye die here."

  Silence stretched between them.

  Finally, Liam spoke.

  "Alright. I’ll take him. I’ll look after him."

  The grandfather nodded, but didn’t smile. He only rested a trembling, tender hand on Declan’s shoulder.

  "I’m not sending ye away. I’m saving ye."

  Declan didn’t cry.

  The blue presence said nothing. There was no need. This time, Declan spoke—and he did it in the only language that now seemed able to hold the weight of his memories.

  "That day, we left. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. I didn’t say anything… I just walked away."

  "Did you want to leave?" the presence asked gently.

  Declan took a long time to answer.

  "I don’t know."

  "Did you want to stay?"

  The silence was longer.

  "I don’t know."

  The scene shifted again without the presence touching it. That surprised her. The memories were no longer being guided—they were pushing from inside.

  A different land appeared. Warmer. More open. Too bright for someone coming from a broken house.

  A new house. New voices.

  His uncle, Julio Benjamín Meza, welcomed him with open arms and a patience that demanded no answers. He didn’t ask hard questions. He didn’t demand explanations. He only showed him where he could put his things and told him he could be at peace there for as long as he needed. He was the one who taught him Spanish.

  The little girl—Valentina—had no such caution. She looked at him with clean, direct curiosity and adopted him without ceremony. She spoke even when he didn’t answer. She brought him toys. She asked questions without pause.

  In the first days, Declan barely managed a few isolated words. He greeted out of politeness. He ate little. He slept badly. He didn’t leave the room.

  The world was too new.

  And he was too tired on the inside.

  But Valentina’s gentle persistence began to open small cracks in his isolation. Not with big gestures—just repetition: knocking on the door, inviting him, trying again. Over and over. Until one day he said yes. Just to make her stop insisting.

  Then he said yes again.

  And again.

  Until it wasn’t surrender anymore.

  It was routine.

  The real break came in the yard.

  He watched his uncle train with a sword. Clean movement. Precise. No shouting. No humiliation. Only technique and breath.

  Declan began to copy him from the side, thinking no one noticed.

  Julio noticed.

  He laughed—not in mockery, but with tenderness—and handed him a wooden sword.

  "Probá."

  (Try.)

  There was no speech.

  No pressure.

  Only permission.

  Declan learned quickly. Too quickly. As if his body understood before his mind did. Each correction was clear, brief, never contemptuous. That was new to him.

  Then it happened.

  While he focused on a sequence, something emerged behind him: a green, muscular figure with horns and blue eyes, wielding chained sabers. A combat presence. A spirit of war.

  Julio didn’t step back.

  He smiled.

  “I see,” he said. “You’re a swordsman.”

  He explained the Masters—entities that answer only to those born with true affinity. Not learned talent. Essential talent. Something Declan had… something Sean had too.

  The wooden sword changed.

  It became real.

  From that day on, Declan trained alone many afternoons. Not out of ambition—out of inner order. Training was silence. And silence was safe.

  It was during one of those afternoons that he saw him for the first time.

  A boy wearing a blue beret. Serious eyes. Still posture. Beside him, a blonde girl who spoke far more than he did. They had stopped to watch.

  Not out of curiosity.

  To assess.

  Declan finished his routine without looking directly at them. Sheathed the sword. Gave a brief nod. Left.

  He thought they wouldn’t return.

  But they did the next day.

  And the next.

  And the next.

  They never interrupted. Never commented. Just watched. At first it unsettled him… then it intrigued him.

  On the fourth day, the boy with the beret—alone this time—spoke.

  “Your left guard drops when you turn.”

  There was no mockery. No superiority. Only precision.

  Declan didn’t answer. He repeated the movement. Better this time.

  The boy nodded once. Like someone confirming a fact.

  “Candado,” he said, barely gesturing to himself.

  He didn’t offer his hand.

  He didn’t smile.

  He wasn’t trying to impress. He wasn’t trying to dominate. He was simply stating the truth.

  Strangely, that gave Declan confidence enough to give his own name.

  “Declan.”

  Their encounters became a silent routine. Sometimes they trained nearby. Sometimes they exchanged a single sentence. Candado never tried to cheer him up. Never treated him as broken.

  He treated him as capable.

  And for Declan, that was new… and decisive.

  Their friendship wasn’t born of laughter. It was built from technical respect, shared silence, honest correction.

  The day Declan cut himself while training, Candado didn’t panic or dramatize. He simply pressed the wound, bandaged it, and said:

  “That’s it. Rest today. Continue tomorrow.”

  Days passed, and without realizing it, Declan began measuring his afternoons by a single variable: whether Candado showed up or not.

  At first it was habit.

  Then expectation.

  Then a quiet certainty.

  Candado arrived almost always at the same hour. He didn’t greet with enthusiasm, but neither with coldness. He had a natural seriousness that didn’t weigh you down—it organized the air around him. Sometimes he brought the blonde girl—who spoke for both of them—and sometimes he came alone, hands in his pockets, eyes attentive, watching Declan train as if every movement were an interesting problem.

  He didn’t give easy praise.

  “You’ve improved,” he would say. And that was enough.

  In time, they began training together. Candado didn’t have Declan’s natural talent with the sword, but he compensated with analysis. He saw angles, rhythms, patterns. Corrected stances with two exact words. He didn’t impose—he adjusted. And when something went well, he would raise an eyebrow, satisfied.

  For him, that was applause.

  They discovered that silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable. They could walk without speaking. Sit without speaking. Think without explaining. For Declan—who came from a world where every word was a risk—that was rest.

  Candado also had a strange charisma: he didn’t try to be likable, and precisely because of that, he was. His humor was dry, unexpected, sometimes brutally honest. But never cruel to the weak. Only to the absurd.

  One day, after training, Candado stared at the empty yard a little longer than usual.

  “Want to come over?” he asked, as if it were a minor detail. “There’s space to practice indoors.”

  Declan took half a second to answer. For anyone else, it would have been nothing. For him, it was a leap.

  “Yes.”

  The house sounded like real life. Footsteps. Doors. The smell of food. It wasn’t silent like his own. It wasn’t tense.

  It was… functional. Warm without trying.

  And there he saw her.

  Candado’s sister.

  Direct light. Open energy. A smile without calculation. She greeted him as if she already knew him—as if any friend of her brother’s was automatically welcome.

  “So you’re the swordsman,” she said. “Now I get why he comes home with mud even in his thoughts.”

  Candado snorted.

  “There’s no mud in my thoughts.”

  “There’s worse,” she replied. “Logic.”

  Declan didn’t understand the joke—but he laughed anyway.

  It was the first time he laughed in that house.

  From then on, he went often. Sometimes they trained. Sometimes they just sat drawing combat strategies they’d never execute. Sometimes they argued improbable theories. Candado was serious, yes—but when he got into a topic, he shone. He spoke of ideas like mechanical pieces that could be dismantled and improved.

  Their friendship didn’t explode.

  It was built.

  “Was he your friend?” the blue presence asked.

  “No,” Declan replied with a sad smile. “He was more than that.”

  Then the scene shifted. It was the day Candado changed forever.

  The news arrived without preparation, without enough sense to hold it.

  Candado’s sister died.

  The world made noise when it happened—but Candado became brief. Too brief. Then he stopped making noise at all.

  Like a room where someone cuts the power.

  His voice shortened. His humor vanished. His gaze no longer evaluated—it passed through things. He was still serious, but no longer firm: he was distant. He didn’t analyze problems. He avoided them. He didn’t propose. He answered with the minimum.

  Declan didn’t know what to do.

  He wasn’t good at comforting. He didn’t know how to choose soft words. He tried once—and his tongue tangled. Candado looked at him, waiting, and Declan just shook his head.

  But he didn’t leave.

  He kept coming.

  Sat nearby. Trained nearby. Walked nearby. Without invading. Without asking. Without forcing conversation.

  Presence without pressure.

  Just as Candado had done for him. He would do the same.

  One day, after a silent practice, Candado said without looking at him:

  “You don’t have to come if it’s boring now.”

  Declan frowned.

  “I’m not here for fun.”

  Candado turned his head slightly.

  “Then why?”

  Declan swallowed. He wasn’t good with speeches. So he chose direct truth.

  “Because you’re my friend.”

  Candado didn’t answer immediately.

  Declan took a breath and added, clumsy but honest:

  “I’m not good at… this.” He gestured vaguely at his chest. “But I’m good at fighting. So… I’ll be your sword. Your loyal sword. I’m staying.”

  Candado leaned his cheek into his hand.

  “That’s a bad idea. I could ask you to drink poison.”

  “No problem.”

  “I could ask you to do something wrong.”

  “Just give the order.”

  “Seriously? Idiota” Candado sighed.

  For the first time since the loss, he didn’t look empty—just tired.

  “Alright,” he said quietly.

  He didn’t hug him. He didn’t smile.

  But he never told him again that he didn’t need to come.

  And for Declan, that was enough acceptance.

  Everything faded again.

  Not abruptly, but slowly—like memories turning to mist the wind decides to carry away. Scenes, voices, the house, the garden, the blood, the promises—everything dissolved into silent white.

  Declan stood alone.

  His clothes returned to their familiar form. The familiar weight returned to his body. And in his hand, as if it had never left, his sword appeared—not merely as a weapon, but as identity. As answer. As choice.

  He held it firmly.

  He didn’t tremble.

  “I am his loyal sword,” he said, low but complete. “My first friend. With him to the end.”

  It wasn’t a heroic oath.

  It wasn’t grand.

  It was direction.

  The blue presence watched him in silence. There was no judgment in its gaze—only late understanding. It closed its eyes slowly, like someone finishing a difficult but clear truth.

  “Very well,” it said. “I’ve seen enough.”

  The world shattered like soundless glass.

  Before Declan could form another word, he woke up.

  Air rushed into his lungs. His body reacted first—ragged breathing, tense muscles, fingers searching for a hilt. It took a second to recognize the ceiling, the shadows, the temperature.

  The room in Nyrvana.

  His pulse hammered in his ears.

  He turned his head. Shapes aligned. Walls. Dim light. Familiar presences.

  Hammya was already awake, leaning against a wall, watching him with contained attention and care. She didn’t invade. Didn’t ask yet. She was simply alert. When their eyes met, she raised her hand in a small greeting—gentler than her usual self.

  Declan answered with a slight nod. He was still fully returning.

  Then he saw him.

  Candado.

  Close. Real. Present.

  Not the memory.

  Him.

  The same silent weight in his posture. The same seriousness. The same firm existence that didn’t need explanation to be recognized.

  Declan didn’t speak right away. He didn’t give a speech. Didn’t explain what he saw. Didn’t recount what he remembered. His loyalty didn’t live in words—it lived in position.

  He took a step forward. Then another.

  And placed his hand on Candado’s shoulder—with respect, with certainty, with permanence.

  “I’m here, sir.”

  Several long minutes later, Clementina woke up, visibly shaken, startling Declan.

  She looked around: Hammya and Declan were awake. Sara, Héctor, and Candado were still asleep.

  Declan approached carefully.

  “Are you alright?”

  Clementina scanned the group, checking vital signs, consciousness, breathing. Everything was in order.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “He’s still in his trial.”

  Declan paused.

  “Did you pass yours?”

  “I don’t know,” Clementina replied. “He said he’d seen enough… and left.”

  “And you?”

  Clementina smiled. Not wide. Not mechanical. Small, calm, genuine.

  “I suppose I did.”

  She moved closer to Candado. Gently took his hand. Hammya, watching from a distance, smiled softly—as if she understood something not yet spoken.

  Clementina carefully removed Candado’s beret and placed it on her lap. Then she laced her fingers with his again.

  She leaned forward slightly.

  “I finished my trial, young master,” she whispered. “I’m waiting for you.”

  Declan smiled and sat beside Candado.

  “Both of us.”