Torn threads

The dream had ended.

When Sartor awoke, he couldn't recall its details—only the strange feeling it left behind, lingering like mist in his chest.

He rose from bed and glanced at the antique wall clock. It read half past seven.

Time didn't change much in the castle; the fog always obscured the sun's position, blurring the line between day and night.

He muttered to himself:

"I suppose I should study plants—how to grow and preserve them. I'm also interested in trade... sales strategies... I've got a lot to research. Even my search into dreams has led nowhere... Maybe I should start looking into demons instead."

He brushed his teeth. The sharpness of the mint stirred something unfamiliar inside him.

"I've been feeling... alive, lately. I'm not sure if that's a good omen—or a bad one."

He chose clothes that matched his mood and headed toward the library. On his way, he cast a glance at the kitchen.

"I don't cook. I used to brew tea sometimes, but I never looked beyond herbs and spices."

The kitchen was suspiciously clean.

No signs of cooking. No ash in the hearth. No water droplets in the sink.

It looked like no one lived here.

"How did I not notice this before? Far too clean for a family of four and a guest living in a mansion."

He crouched down and searched the drawers, then the lower and upper cabinets—looking for anything: vegetables, fruit, meat, anything at all.

He was so absorbed in the search that he didn't sense someone approaching behind him.

It wasn't until a hand was placed on his shoulder that his body flinched—just slightly—before he quickly composed himself and turned his head calmly.

"What are you doing, young master?"

He hesitated for a moment but kept his tone smooth:

"Nothing… I was looking for coffee. I woke up early, figured I'd read a bit with a cup until breakfast."

An improvised answer, shaped under pressure.

Yasmin didn't reply at first. A quiet moment passed. She lifted her gaze to the marble countertop and stared at it—long and hard—as if examining something Sartor couldn't see.

Then, with a quiet voice, she said:

"No, young master. Leave such menial tasks to this servant."

She gently took his arm—the one he still had—and guided him to the library.

After ensuring he was absorbed in his books, she brought him coffee herself.

Breakfast in the library had become a habit after just two days.

Once he had eaten, Sartor continued his reading, buried as usual beneath mountains of books, until the chime of the old clock told him noon had arrived.

He left the library and made his way to the dojo, where, as always, he had permission to enter.

The moment he stepped inside, Tian began tormenting him with endless laps—doubling the intensity of their training, switching up routines so his legs would tear without rest.

Tian led him through several drills before pausing.

"Thank you, master. I'll be here tomorrow."

Tian chuckled and left for a moment, returning with two wooden swords.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Didn't we finish the training?"

"You thought we were done? No… That was just the warm-up. Now the real training begins."

He placed one sword in Sartor's remaining hand and waited for him to take the other.

Once he did—hell began.

Wooden blades breaking and replaced.

Stifled cries.

Breath lost.

Eyes forced to stay open for fear of falling.

And again… And again…

Day after day.

Tian never relented.

Never slowed.

Never spared him.

Sartor's body was torn down and rebuilt—again and again.

Three years later...

Before the castle gates stood a seventeen-year-old adolescent.

His athletic build concealed the strength forged by years of torment.

The softness of his features had sharpened: a faint beard, a pronounced nose, emerald eye that made his white hair glow even brighter.

He wore a tailored white suit embroidered with gold thread, a single glove covering his one hand.

The sluggishness was gone. Every step he took breathed confidence.

In front of him stood a lavish carriage pulled by two horses, though Sartor noticed strange iron joints along its sides.

He didn't understand their purpose, so he dismissed them.

Behind him stood Yasmin.

Her uniform was packed away.

She wore a white blouse pleated at the collar like a choker, topped with a black corset that shaped her waist.

Tight trousers ended in a long split tailcoat.

Her lustrous black hair was neatly styled, and what remained of her body was covered in black gloves—as if she were hiding more than just skin.

Sartor scoffed quietly at the sight of the carriage and horses:

"They're not even pretending anymore… That monster Tian tortured me for two years, then vanished without a word—left me alone with that hell he called training. I don't care where he went, but when I find him, I'll make sure he regrets bringing me back to life."

He chuckled to himself and recalled the first time the carriage and horses had appeared—out of nowhere.

Even childhood tales had hinted at similar arrivals, with witches and pumpkins.

He shrugged, ignoring the castle's increasingly poor attempts to hide secrets that no longer stayed hidden.

He turned to face his grandparents—who hadn't changed at all these past years.

"Now, Sartor, the ship should be waiting. You need to leave before the weather shifts," said the Kaiser.

Before he could say more, Bianca interrupted him with a tight embrace.

Her hug was crushing—Sartor could almost hear his ribs creak.

"My sweet boy… that Tian taught you how to defend yourself."

She looked at his gloved hand, then added:

"And you're educated. No teacher can teach you more. You're heading to a new land, but don't be afraid… I'm always with you—against them… all of them."

She said it while staring at the Kaiser, who gave a resigned smile.

The embrace ended when the Kaiser removed a pendant from around his neck and handed it to Sartor.

Then, without a word, he and Bianca stepped back.

Tears swam in her eyes but never fell.

Sartor climbed into the carriage beside Yasmin, bound for the unknown.

And behind him, in the castle's lavish silence, the Kaiser murmured while gazing toward the horizon:

"I hate that I've grown old… Even the desert's sand never broke me… But dust... Dust made me surrender."