In The Eyes of Truth

The days turned into weeks as Greg's training routine became more disciplined. Each morning, he woke up early, laced up his worn sneakers, and jogged through the neighborhood. The streets were quiet at dawn, with only a few people out and about. He liked it that way; it gave him time to think.
Greg's house was a modest two-story in a quiet middle-class neighborhood. The walls were painted a pale yellow, the garden out front a little overgrown but filled with colorful flowers his mother adored. Inside, it was cozy, if slightly cluttered. The living room had a large, old couch that his father swore was the most comfortable piece of furniture on earth. His younger sister's art projects covered the fridge, a constant reminder of her budding creativity.
Life at home was normal, but Greg felt anything but. The more he trained, the more he felt like his dreams were bleeding into his waking life. His body responded faster now, his reflexes sharper. The stick he had used to defend himself that night had become his makeshift training weapon. Every day, he practiced the movements he remembered from his dreams: thrusts, parries, blocks.
The backyard was his practice ground. It wasn't huge, but it was enough. The wooden fence provided a boundary, and the patch of grass was soft under his feet. He sometimes imagined it was an open field, like the ones in his dreams, where the squire would spar with his knight.
One sunny afternoon, Greg decided to take a longer jog, heading toward the riverside park. It was a beautiful place, with tall trees lining the trail and the gentle rush of water filling the air. Families picnicked on the grass, children chased each other around, and joggers passed by with rhythmic strides. The sunlight dappled through the leaves, casting playful shadows on the ground.
As he ran, his thoughts drifted, but he was jolted back to reality when he noticed someone familiar ahead. Lydia.
She was jogging too, her pink hair catching the sunlight in a way that made it seem almost luminous. Lydia wasn't flashy or overdone; she was just naturally beautiful. Her simple running outfit and the light sheen of sweat on her brow only added to her charm. But there was something about her.
Her easy smile. The way she carried herself. She always seemed so... unreal. An out-of-this-world girl.
Greg hesitated, slowing his pace. Should he catch up? Talk to her? His heart raced, but he wasn't sure if it was from running or nerves. Before he could decide, Lydia turned and noticed him.
"Oh, hey, Greg!" she called out, slowing down to jog beside him.
"Uh, hey, Lydia," Greg replied, trying to keep his voice steady.
"You run here often?" she asked, her tone light and friendly.
"Yeah, kind of," he said, trying not to sound too awkward. "Just started a while ago. Trying to, you know... stay in shape."
Lydia chuckled. "Same. Well, I've been running for a while, but it's nice to see someone from school out here. It's usually just me and a bunch of strangers."
Greg nodded, his mind scrambling for something to say. The conversation felt like a test, one he wasn't prepared for.
They fell into step together, the rhythm of their footsteps matching. For a moment, neither of them spoke, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable. Greg glanced at Lydia out of the corner of his eye.
"You're really fast," Greg blurted out, wincing at how awkward it sounded.
"Thanks," Lydia said with a laugh. "You're not bad yourself. I didn't know you ran."
"Yeah, just picked it up recently. Trying to improve... everything, I guess," he said, vaguely gesturing.
"Everything?" Lydia asked, her curiosity piqued.
"Yeah. You know, just... get stronger, better." Greg hesitated, unsure how much to share. "It's kind of a personal goal."
"Well, I think that's great," Lydia said, her smile encouraging. "It's always good to have goals."
The conversation flowed more easily after that, and Greg found himself relaxing. They talked about school, the park, and random things like their favorite places to eat in town. Lydia had a way of making everything seem lighter, less intimidating.
When they reached the end of the trail, Lydia slowed to a stop. "Well, I should head back," she said. "But it was nice running with you, Greg. Maybe I'll see you out here again?"
"Yeah, definitely," Greg said, trying not to sound too eager.

As she jogged away, Greg watched her for a moment before turning to head home. His heart was still racing, but not from the run. Talking to Lydia had felt like a small victory, a step forward in a life that had felt stuck for too long.
Greg returned home to the small but comfortable house he shared with his family. It wasn't fancy, but it had character. The front yard was neat, with a small garden his mom tended to on weekends. The paint on the house was a little faded, and the porch steps creaked, but it felt like home.
Inside, the living room was cozy, filled with mismatched furniture that somehow worked together. A soft, worn couch sat in the center, facing a television that was far from the latest model but worked well enough. Framed pictures of Greg, his younger sister Emma, and their parents lined the walls, along with a few paintings his dad had bought from a flea market.
Greg's room was small but his own. The bed was pushed against the wall, with shelves above it crammed with books, action figures, and random knick-knacks he'd collected over the years. His desk was cluttered with notebooks, pens, and a laptop that had seen better days.
At dinner, the family gathered around the wooden dining table. His mom served spaghetti, her specialty, while Emma chattered about school. His dad asked Greg how his day had been, his tone warm but slightly distracted, as if he was still thinking about work.
"It was good," Greg said, twirling spaghetti around his fork.
"Did you go running again?" his mom asked, raising an eyebrow.
Greg nodded. "Yeah. By the river. It's nice there."
"That's good," his dad said. "Just don't push yourself too hard. You don't want to get hurt."
Greg nodded again, but his mind was elsewhere. He thought about Lydia, about her laugh and the way she'd looked at him. And then his thoughts shifted to the stick leaning in the corner of his room, waiting for the next training session.
As the family talked and laughed, Greg felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't told them about the dreams, about the squire, about how all of this had started. Would they even understand? He didn't know.
After dinner, Greg retreated to his room. He picked up the stick and ran his fingers over its surface. It was worn now, with scratches from all the training, but it felt solid, dependable.
Greg swung it once, then twice, the movement fluid. He didn't know what tomorrow would bring, but he knew one thing: he wasn't going to stop. Not yet.
~~~~~
Albert leaned against the railing of the riverside path, watching the sunlight ripple on the water's surface. Trees lined the area, their leaves swaying in the breeze as joggers and families meandered by. It was a peaceful scene, but his mind was anything but calm.
Lydia appeared beside him, her pink hair unmistakable even in the crowd. She moved with the quiet grace of someone who didn't want to draw attention, but Albert had seen her approach from the corner of his eye.
"You're late," Albert said, his tone light but his gaze sharp.
"Had to make sure I wasn't followed," Lydia replied, leaning casually on the railing beside him. Her voice held a hint of amusement, but there was an edge to it.
Albert nodded, his focus still on the water. "It's happening, isn't it? He's starting to awaken."
Lydia sighed softly. "Yes. But it's subtle. Small changes. Nothing definitive yet."
Albert turned to her, his expression serious. "Subtle or not, they'll notice soon enough. The more his power grows, the harder it will be to keep him under the radar."
"That's why we're here," Lydia said. Her tone carried a calm assurance, but there was a flicker of unease in her eyes. "To keep an eye on him. To make sure they don't get to him before he's ready."
Albert's jaw tightened. "He doesn't even know who he is. What he's capable of. How are we supposed to protect him when he doesn't understand the danger?"
"We don't have a choice," Lydia said simply. "The organization will move when they sense a threat. It's only a matter of time before they come after him."
Albert's grip on the railing tightened. "The Black Veil doesn't move on whispers. They're efficient. Ruthless. If they've caught even a whiff of him"
"They have," Lydia interrupted, her voice lower now. "They don't know who he is yet, or what he looks like. But they've narrowed down the area. It's only a matter of time before they dig deeper."
Albert swore under his breath. "We need to act fast. The last thing we need is the Veil finding him before he's ready."
Lydia's gaze softened, but her tone was firm. "That's why we're here. To guide him. To keep him hidden as long as we can."
Albert looked at her, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and concern. "He was the greatest swordmaster I've ever known. The leader we followed into battle, the one who never faltered. But now, he's just a boy. A boy who doesn't even know the world he's about to face."
Lydia nodded, her expression unreadable. "And that's why he'll need you. When the time comes, he'll need someone to remind him of who he is."
The conversation shifted into silence, the sounds of the riverside filling the void. Lydia eventually straightened, her enigmatic demeanor returning. "Keep watching him," she said. "And be ready. The Veil will make their move sooner than we'd like."
With that, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Albert alone with his thoughts.
~~~~~
The dimly lit chamber hummed with quiet menace. A massive table dominated the center of the room, its surface carved with intricate symbols that seemed to twist and shift under the flickering light of torches mounted on the stone walls. Around the table sat the key figures of the Black Veil—a shadowy organization whose influence extended into the darkest corners of the world.
At the head of the table sat a figure cloaked in deep crimson, their face obscured by an ornate mask. They tapped their gloved fingers on the wood, the sound reverberating like a metronome.
"Report," the masked leader commanded, their voice sharp yet calm, laced with a quiet authority that demanded obedience.
A woman with sharp eyes and a voice like silk leaned forward. Her codename was "Shade," known for her ability to blend into the darkness like a phantom. "We've intercepted whispers," she began. "A surge of residual energy detected near the riverside district. It matches the traces we've been monitoring, subtle, but unmistakable."
"And the source?" the leader asked.
Shade shook her head. "Still unknown. We've narrowed it to a cluster of streets, but the signature is erratic. It flares briefly and then disappears, like an ember in the wind."
Across the table, a man with a cruel smile and piercing blue eyes chuckled. "An ember can ignite a wildfire," he said. This was "Razor," an enforcer known for his brutal efficiency. He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement. "When do we move?"
"Patience," the leader replied, their voice measured. "We don't strike until we're certain. The last thing we need is to alert him to our presence before we understand his potential."
Shade raised an eyebrow. "If it's who we think it is... waiting could be a mistake. You've seen what happens when they awaken. If he's the one, the longer we delay, the stronger he becomes."
The leader's fingers stilled. "I am aware of the risks, Shade. That is why we are sending the Hounds."
The room fell silent. The mention of the Hounds sent a ripple of unease through the gathered members.
"They've already been dispatched," the leader continued. "Their orders are to surveil, not engage. We need confirmation before we act. And if they find him..." A faint smile curved beneath the mask. "They will bring him to us."
~~~~~
In a shadowy alley miles away from the Veil's headquarters, three figures stood in the gloom. They were the Hounds, a trio of operatives handpicked for their unique skills and unrelenting loyalty to the organization.
The first was Vex, a wiry man with an unsettling grin and a penchant for knives. He twirled one of his blades idly, its edge glinting in the faint light.
"Residual energy," he muttered, his voice carrying a playful edge. "Fancy way of saying we're chasing ghosts."
Beside him stood Nyra, her sharp features framed by short, dark hair. She was the tracker, her senses honed to detect even the faintest trace of their quarry. "Not ghosts," she corrected. "A source. A spark. And it's close."
The third figure, a towering man called Graven, said nothing. His imposing presence was enough to convey his role the muscle of the group.
Nyra knelt, pressing her hand to the ground. Her eyes glowed faintly, a result of the enhancements the Veil had bestowed upon her. "The energy trail is faint but fresh. Whoever it is, they're still in this area."
Vex grinned. "Good. I've been itching for a hunt."
Nyra shot him a look. "Remember the orders. No engagement. We find him, mark him, and report back. Nothing more."
Vex shrugged, but the gleam in his eyes suggested he had no intention of playing by the rules.
Graven finally spoke, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder. "And if he resists?"
Nyra hesitated, then straightened. "Then we remind him why the Hounds are feared."