The Ghost Blade”
League of Assassins Stronghold — Months Later
Peter moved like a shadow — silent, fluid, lethal.
Talia watched from the upper balcony, her eyes narrowed in a blend of pride and melancholy. This was not the Peter she’d once known. That boy — the soft-hearted twin who played in gardens and snuck food to animals — had died in the courtyard.
This new Peter had no past. No brother. No mercy.
“Again,” she commanded.
Below, Peter flipped his blade upward, slicing through three incoming League warriors with surgical grace. He didn’t grunt, didn’t shout. Every movement was clean. Efficient.
He was beautiful. And dangerous.
The instructors called him “Ash” — a name given to ghosts, to things reborn from fire.
But Peter didn’t care. He didn’t question it.
At night, he sat alone beneath the carved stone dragons outside his quarters. He stared up at the stars and sometimes touched the scar on his chest — a mark left by Damian’s blade, though he didn’t know why it made his hand tremble.
Talia watched from the shadows.
He was growing stronger. Faster. Sharper.
But also… quieter.
She approached him one evening, draping a cloak around his shoulders.
“You did well today,” she said. “You’re already surpassing most of the League.”
Peter didn’t look at her. “Why does it still feel like something’s missing?”
Talia hesitated. “It’s normal. Your mind was… broken when we found you. But you’re healing. Becoming who you were meant to be.”
Peter closed his eyes. “I don’t remember anything. But sometimes… I dream.”
Talia tensed. “Of what?”
“A boy,” Peter said. “Looks like me. But different. He always stands at the edge of the dream. And when I try to reach him… he turns his back.”
He looked up at her. “Why would someone I don’t know make me feel like I’m supposed to be someone else?”
Talia knelt in front of him. “Because some ghosts never rest. But you don’t need them. You have me. And a purpose.”
Peter nodded slowly — but the doubt remained behind his eyes.