Nathan awoke to the blinding light of the resting room. He closed his eyes again, still exhausted. He caught his breath at a sharp pain in his abdomen.

“Finally awake?” came a gruff voice from somewhere on his right.

Nathan smiled at his father’s voice. To others, the tone would have been intimidating. But to him, it was almost soothing.

He concentrated on remembering how he’d gotten here. The last thing he remembered was his walk home. He’d been preparing for a sparring match. . .

“You don’t remember what happened.”

Nathan shook his head as slightly as possible. He would have preferred to sit up and look at his father, but that was out of the question.

“I admit that your physical prowess in battle is something else,” Blithe said. “You’ve been relentless in your training. That’s admirable. But physical strength is not the only thing to dictate the victor. Do you know why you lost this time?”

Blithe let the question hang in the air. A minute passed with no answer. Blithe stood up to check on his son, thinking he had fallen asleep.

“I can’t remember the fight that well,” Nathan said, his voice breaking the long silence. “But from the bits and pieces I can put together, it’s clear that I lost.”

“Yes.”

“I’m also pretty sure it wasn’t a contest of pure power. You used some underhanded bull crap!”

Nathan chuckled softly, then coughed and winced at the pain. Blithe let the remark pass.

“And this part isn’t that clear to me, but I remember you falling to the ground with my blade in your shoulder.”

Nathan paused to think again.

“Now that I think about it, I’m such a moron. Where the blade was, that couldn’t have been a fatal injury no matter what it hit. Or at least, not if I closed the wound fast enough. There was no reason for someone of your caliber to collapse from that. How could I not notice that!”

Nathan banged his fist on the white table he laid on. From his expression, it was evident that he would have done much more if not for his injuries.

Blithe remained by his son in silence. It was neither his place to console, nor to scold. Nathan was old enough to fight his own battles, whether on the field or in his head. Better he learned now than later.

“Thank you,” Nathan said at last.

Just two words. Nathan had learned something, Blithe understood. But was it enough? Blithe had been an assassin long enough to learn to trust his premonitions. His gut told him this would be only the first step. He sighed, feeling useless.

“You should take a rest,” he said to his son. “You’ve been sleeping for a couple of hours, but I can tell you won’t be able to drink a cup of water without taking a bath along with it. Should I take you to your bedroom, or would that hurt too much?”

“The table isn’t the comfiest bed, but I think going to my room would be a lot worse. I’ll doze off here,” Nathan said. “I know you can’t feel pain, old man, but I’m still just a mortal.”

“Watch your mouth, you runt.” A broad grin spread over Blithe’s face. “You’re in the market for some solid ass-whooping. I’m looking forward to our next sparring session.”

Nathan gulped. He wasn’t sure whether he should be glad there would be a next time, or whether he should prepare to leave the house in a coffin afterwards. But he only had a few seconds to think about it before he fell into another deep slumber.

***

Fifteen hours later, Nathan sat down to a bowl of cereal and yoghurt in the kitchen. He was accustomed to solitude—he usually enjoyed it—but today he was lonely. He found himself wishing his father would join him.

To his surprise, Blithe suddenly popped out of the hallway, a smile on his face. It was haunting, the way his father could materialize like that. Especially considering his line of work.

“How’s the wound?” Blithe asked, giving Nathan a pat on the head.

“A lot better. Hurts like hell still, but at least I can function somewhat normally.”

Blithe pulled out a bowl and a spoon for himself.

“How about we go and eat dinner somewhere in the capital today? Maybe we could go and see a movie or something.”

Nathan’s eyes shone with excitement. His father’s work consumed most of his time. They seldom saw one another, apart from brief exchanges in the morning, or the odd training session.

“Yes! Yes! I’d love to” Nathan beamed, forgetting his wound. “Oh shit, I might have to take it easy, though. If you get some stupid idea like running or something, I swear to god…”

“Don’t worry. I may be a monster, but I’m still your father. So I might just do a light jog instead of a regular run.”

Nathan gave him a piercing stare, as if to say Try it, old man. Blithe burst into laughter, almost spitting out his yoghurt.

Nathan took a bite, squinting his eyes and chewing with the expression of a predator. Blithe noticed the attempt at a staring contest and decided to go with it. The smile vanished from his face. It was survival of the fittest now.

Three seconds later, Blithe was laughing hard enough he’d almost forgotten how to breathe. Nathan couldn’t help joining in. He held his side and howled.

It took a good five minutes for Blithe to regain his composure. Even then, he let out an occasional chuckle when he remembered his son trying to act all cool with him. At this moment, no one would have guessed Blithe was anything other than a father who liked to barbeque on weekends and crack the occasional dad joke.

“So um . . . Nathan.” And there he was laughing again, but only for a second. He wiped his eyes.

“Okay, calm down, you old idiot,” he said. He cleared his throat. “So, I wanted to ask you. . . have you been talking to any girls?”

Nathan saw the grin on his father’s face and nearly choked on his spoon. He appreciated his father’s goofiness, but this was verging on insanity. Why the hell would he be interested in girls?

“You haven’t, have you? Nate, I know how focused you are on training, but let me tell you one thing. I won’t be here forever. When I die one day, you’ll be alone. I suggest you start making friends. I realize how hard it is for you to talk to people your own age—especially when they go on about bull crap—but you can try, at least. Maybe instead of lowering yourself to their level, you could help them reach yours.”

Nathan was listening.

“Just to be clear, I’m talking about mental age, here. Don’t go beating the poor kids just because they can’t snap someone’s neck with their bare hands.”

They both chuckled a little.

“Try talking to them,” Blithe went on. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. You still have about a month before you go back to school. Maybe you can contact one of your classmates and go on a trip or something. I don’t know.”

Nathan considered scoffing, but a twinge from his wound persuaded him otherwise. His father was serious this time.

“I’ll think about it,” Nathan replied sincerely.

“Please do. I have to go now, but I’ll come back later in the evening and we can go to the city.”

Blithe cleared away his dishes and left the house. Nathan finished cleaning the table and went to his room. Seating himself on the bed, he did something he hadn’t done for a long time—he turned on his cell phone.