My blood roared, Kenan’s words—“Your gods are weak”—a blade to my pride. Agok, Ceres, Tian—they’d forged me through the Vicious Game, held me when Keiya’s blood stained my hands, even as Rina’s flight and Lyra’s sneer broke me. I lunged, Kris flashing, the cabin’s air thick with dust and dried herbs. Kenan stood calm, grey eyes steady, a fork glinting in his hand. Thirty seconds. He sidestepped, fluid, his staff tripping my feet. The fork flicked, my Kris clattered, and its prongs pressed my throat, cold, sharp. My breath caught, ribs stinging, pride a bruised thing.

Crust laughed, warm and deep, leaning against the wall. “A fork!” he said, grinning. “You still have it in you, brother. Always the best.” My face burned, but Kenan’s mastery—disarming me with a utensil—sparked awe. His skill outmatched mine, yet Crust nodded, eyes glinting. “You’ve got fire, Dorack. Not our level, but fierce.”
“I spoke harshly,” Kenan said, lowering the fork, voice soft but firm. “Your gods are yours, but my God offers peace.” He handed me a cane, its wood worn smooth, steadying my trembling frame. I gripped it, shame and admiration clashing, Rina’s face and Dakor’s shadow—my vow to end him—fading under his gaze.

That day, Kenan led me from the cabin into their villa, a large stone house, its walls etched with simple vine patterns, windows catching the sun’s glare. The garden stretched wide, roses sharp with scent, lavender dusting the air, honeysuckle’s tang clinging to my throat. Eight figures—four men, four women, Kenan’s “sisters and brothers”—moved with quiet purpose: a woman swept the porch, broom scratching stone; a man hauled firewood, sweat beading; another dusted shelves, cloth whispering; a sister stirred a pot, steam curling. Their rhythm stirred my battered soul, a contrast to my rashness.

Kenan’s staff tapped a stone path, Crust trailing, his bow slung, eyes sharp but wise, a man in his sixties, coordinated with Kenan’s lead. “My God heals the broken,” Kenan said, pausing by a wooden chapel, its steeple cutting the sky. “Faith mends what blades cannot.” His words, rich with mystery, pulled me, challenging my chaos.
Crust nodded, voice steady. “Fighting sharpens the soul. Keeps it ready.” His wisdom, practical, deferred to Kenan’s enigma, his love for combat clear but measured. “We came here seeking peace,” he added, “but sometimes peace must come through strength. And strength is learned.”

We entered a hall where ten teenage students sat, reciting verses in unison, their voices rising and falling, hands tracing parchment lines—words of light against fear, a shield in battle. A sister guided them, her tone firm yet kind. “This is for faith’s truth,” Kenan said, lingering by a carved lectern. “To know my God’s way.”
In a courtyard, a brother polished armor, metal clinking. “Discipline shapes us,” Kenan said, his words weaving faith’s promise. “My God asks surrender.” Crust countered, “A strong arm guards faith. Train it.” I leaned on the cane, ribs pinching, Rina’s betrayal and Dakor’s oath heavy but distant. “Why me?” I asked, voice rough. “Why save a wreck?”

Kenan’s gaze softened. “My God finds the lost. You have heart, Dorack—a warrior’s spirit.” Crust smiled faintly. “Your fire’s raw, but it burns true.” Their admiration, despite my inferior skill, stirred me, a spark in my ruins.
“A fork takes my Kris, you talk gods and strength,” I said, cane digging dirt, pride flaring. Kenan’s soft laugh echoed, warm, disarming. “What the hell was that?”

He turned, eyes piercing, voice weighty, epic. “Not yet, brother. You grow strong. You aren’t there yet.” The words shattered my pride—Dorack, Kedrone’s champion, unready, humbled. Yet they beckoned, a rich challenge, drawing me to his God’s light, a path beyond Rina’s lies and Dakor’s blood, inviting me to rise, to become.