The tavern was dim, smoke curling through the air, and the laughter of drunkards echoing in the background. Jax leaned back in his chair, one boot propped on the table, a mischievous grin plastered across his face as he studied his hand. Elias sat across from him, slow and deliberate, his wrinkled hands shuffling the deck with an ease that belied his age.

  "Your tell’s showing again, boy," Elias muttered, sliding a card onto the table without looking up.

  Jax smirked. "Or maybe I’m just letting you think it is." He slapped down his cards with a flourish, collecting the pile of coins in the center.

  Elias raised a bushy eyebrow, unimpressed. "Confidence is one thing. Arrogance is another."

  For a moment, the two sat in silence, the noise of the tavern buzzing around them. Then Jax, curiosity tugging at him, leaned forward. "Elias... you’re too sharp to be just some washed-up gambler. What did you do before all this? Who were you, really?"

  The old man paused, eyes narrowing. He poured himself a drink before answering, voice low and steady.

  "Thirty years ago, when this kingdom was drowning in blood, I wasn’t sitting at a card table. I was part of a team—stealth, infiltration, the kind of work no bard sings about. We slipped behind enemy lines, cut supplies, and ended the men before they woke up. No glory, no banners, just shadows and steel."

  "Jax's grin faded, replaced by something more thoughtful. "So... you were a ghost." Elias gave a humorless chuckle. "Ghosts don't live this long." He sipped his drink, eyes distant for a moment, as if seeing old battlefields no one else could. "And Gerald?" Jax asked carefully. Elias's face hardened. "Your father was a hero to the people, aye. Strong, noble, the golden knight who rode at the front. But men like him... they don't see the knives in the dark, the things done in their name. He called it honor, but honor doesn't bury the bodies we had to hide." The old man leaned forward, fixing Jax with a gaze sharp enough to cut. "So no, boy, I don't much like your king. But you..." A faint smirk cracked his weathered face. "You've got something different. You see the cracks in the wall, the games behind the cheers. I respect that." Jax twirled a coin across his knuckles, smirking at Elias's gruff words. "Respect, huh? That's a first. Usually, I get called reckless, irresponsible, or—" "Annoying," Elias cut in dryly, laying another card down. Before Jax could fire back, a chair screeched nearby. A large, red-faced drunk stumbled toward their table, mug sloshing with ale. His eyes squinted as he leaned closer, breath sour with alcohol. "Well, well, if it isn't the little prince," the man slurred, his words dripping with mockery. "What's a royal brat doing down here with us common folk, eh? Slumming it? Looking for stories to tell your fancy brothers?" Jax forced a grin, trying to brush him off. "Just playing cards. Didn't know I needed your permission to sit at a table." The drunk slammed his mug down, froth spilling across the cards. "You think you're better than us, don't you? Walking in here with that smug look, acting like you belong. You're nothing without your daddy's crown." Jax's jaw tightened, but he kept his tone even. "Careful. You're about to spill on my winning hand." The tavern went quiet, all eyes turning toward the scene. Elias sighed, setting his cards aside. "Boy," he muttered to Jax, "this is why I tell you patience beats pride." The drunk leaned closer, jabbing a finger into Jax's chest. "What're you gonna do, prince? Call your guards?

  Before Jax could respond, Elias stood slowly, his back cracking as he straightened. Despite his age, the sharpness of his movements silenced the room more effectively than any shout could have.

  “Sit down,” Elias told the drunk, his voice calm but sharp, like a drawn blade.

  The man sneered. “Or what, old man?”

  Elias moved with unexpected speed. A single, solid punch—swift, clean, and precise—connected with the drunk’s jaw. The man crumpled to the floor, unconscious before his mug even tipped over.

  The tavern erupted in laughter and cheers, mugs slamming against tables.

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  Elias shook out his hand, muttering, “Still got it.”

  He turned to Jax, his eyes narrowing. “You, boy, owe me another round of cards for dragging me into this.”

  The tavern slowly returned to its noisy rhythm, the drunk still sprawled on the floor as others dragged him away. Jax leaned forward on the table, his eyes gleaming.

  “That,” he said, grinning, “wasn’t just some tavern brawl punch. That was… clean, precise. You’ve still got more in you than you let on, old man.”

  Elias sipped from his mug, his expression unreadable. “A man doesn’t forget certain things, especially when he’s had to live with them.”

  Jax tapped the table impatiently. “Then teach me. Show me how you used to fight—the techniques you don’t share when we’re playing cards. I want to learn your way—the shadows, the tricks, the precision. Not all fire and swords like Colby and Atlas. Something different.”

  The old gambler studied him for a long moment, silence stretching between them. Finally, Elias chuckled faintly. “You’re a stubborn brat, reminds me of myself before I had gray in my beard.”

  He reached beneath the table and slid a small leather bundle across to Jax. Inside, wrapped in cloth, was a set of throwing knives—simple, balanced, and well-worn from years of use.

  “Every blade’s got a story,” Elias said, his tone low and serious. “These were mine. Now they’re yours. Learn them, respect them, and they’ll never fail you. But remember—knives don’t win wars. Wits do.”

  Jax turned the knives in his hands, the steel catching the dim tavern light. For once, his grin softened into something quieter, almost reverent. “Thank you, Elias.”

  That night, Jax slipped back into the castle, knives hidden beneath his cloak. But word traveled faster than footsteps, and by the time he reached the inner halls, King Gerald was waiting.

  The king stood in the torchlit corridor, arms folded, his expression a storm brewing. “A tavern brawl?” Gerald’s voice was low but dangerous. “With you at the center, and half the city talking about it by dawn.”

  Jax froze, the knives heavy at his side. For the first time that day, his smirk faltered as he met his father’s piercing gaze.

  The corridor was tense, shadows stretching long under the torchlight. Jax shifted uncomfortably, but Gerald’s eyes didn’t waver. The king’s voice, low and measured, carried more weight than any shout could.

  “You think I don’t hear the whispers? My son, in taverns, dicing with drunks and stirring up fights. You’re no ordinary boy, Jax—you carry the weight of this kingdom’s name. When you vanish into the city, you don’t just risk yourself. You risk the balance of all four of you.”

  Jax crossed his arms, trying to mask his nerves with defiance. “I can take care of myself. I’m not Colby, marching in lines, or Marco, buried in books. I learn differently.”

  Gerald stepped closer, his presence filling the hall. “And what about Elias?” The name came out sharp, edged with mistrust. “An old soldier of shadows, a man who still smells of smoke and secrets. I know men like him. Useful in war, dangerous in peace. You think you can trust him?”

  Jax hesitated, then met his father’s gaze firmly. “He respects me. Sees me for more than a prince. He’s teaching me things no one else would.”

  Gerald’s jaw tightened, but after a long silence, he exhaled. “I don’t like it. But I won’t forbid it—not if it makes you stronger. Still, I will not have my son sneaking through taverns, risking his life to meet in the shadows.”

  His tone softened slightly, though steel remained beneath. “From now on, I will arrange places for you and Elias to meet—secure, private, under my eye. If you insist on learning from him, you will do so safely. Do not mistake this for approval—it is caution.”

  For a moment, the stern king’s mask cracked, revealing the father beneath. “You are my son, Jax. I will not lose you to recklessness or to the ghosts of an old war.”

  Jax lowered his gaze, the weight of his father’s words heavy, but deep down a flicker of gratitude stirred.

  Jax – Training in the Shadows

  The courtyard Gerald had arranged was quiet, walled off from the rest of the castle grounds. Guards patrolled nearby, but none disturbed the pair inside. Torches lined the stone walls, their light flickering across Elias and Jax as they stood facing one another.

  Elias tossed a knife, catching it by the blade before flicking it into a wooden target. The blade struck with a thunk, dead center. He looked at Jax, unimpressed.

  “Your turn, boy. And don’t grin at me like this is a game. Out there, a miss is grave.”

  Jax twirled one of the gifted knives, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips, but the weight of Elias’s gaze sobered him. He threw. The knife hit wide, clattering against stone.

  Elias sighed. “We’ve got work to do.”

  And so the training began—long nights of repetition, patience, and precision. Unlike the drills Colby endured or the rigorous sparring Atlas thrived in, Jax’s lessons were quiet, exact, and unforgiving. Every mistake was met not with anger but with Elias’s raspy, cutting wisdom: “The stone waits. Learn to wait with it.”