Chapter 218 Ryder
EPILOGUE
Clarence’s POV Ryder Age 5
The camp lay hidden deep in the forest, quiet except for the occasional chirp of birds and the soft rustle of leaves. The tents formed a half-circle around a clearing, and a small fire burned lazily in the center, sending smoke curling into the pale morning light. Everything here had a purpose. The training, the strategy, the secrecy. But today, the clearing held something different.
Ryder. My son.
He was barely five, yet his small frame already carried the lean strength that would grow with him. Sandy blonde hair fell in loose waves over his forehead, blue eyes bright with curiosity. He ran across the clearing, dodging sticks, jumping over rocks, and swinging a short wooden practice sword in clumsy arcs that only barely hit the target dummies I had set up for him.
I watched from a shaded spot behind a large oak, arms crossed, studying him as carefully as I had studied every tactic I’d ever taught myself. Every move he made was imperfect, yet full of potential. His reflexes weren’t honed, his timing was inconsistent. And yet, he had the spark. That spark only a child with a predator’s blood or the blood of a rogue, like mine could carry.
“Again, Ryder,” I called, my voice low but firm.
He froze mid-swing, turning toward me with a wide, mischievous grin. “Yes, Dad!” He sprinted back to the dummy, tripping over a root and stumbling face-first into the dirt. He popped up immediately, brushing the dust off, ignoring the scrape on his knee. Already, he was running again, giggling.
I shook my head, a faint smile tugging at my lips. That laugh was a bright, fearless, and full of energy. It would one day harden into something sharper. Something useful. For now, it was just a boy enjoying himself.
He swung at the dummy again, more deliberately this time, but the wooden sword barely grazed it. He tilted his head, squinting at me. “Like this?” he asked, voice earnest.
I stepped closer, squatting so I was at his eye level. “Closer,” I said. “Slow your swing. Watch your stance. Timing matters more than strength. You’ll understand it later.”
Ryder frowned, concentrating. He swung again, slower this time, wobbling slightly, then let out a victorious squeal when the sword hit the dummy. “I did it!”
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “But do it again, and again, until you don’t have to think about it. Your body will remember before your mind does. That’s how you’ll survive when the time comes.”
He paused, looking at me with wide blue eyes. “When will that be?”
I let silence answer him. At five, he didn’t need the answer. Not yet. He needed patience, small lessons, and a foundation. Everything else would come later.
Nearby, I set up a small training obstacle course with logs, low walls and ropes. Ryder sprinted toward it, climbing over a log with wobbly legs, nearly toppling backward. I caught him with a hand just in time. “Good,” I murmured. “Keep moving. Keep practicing.”
He giggled, brushing off my hand. “I’m fast!”
“You are,” I said. “But speed without control isn’t enough. Watch, learn, adjust. You have to think faster than the person you’re facing. Or the world will teach you.”
He didn’t reply. He was already racing across the ropes, swinging, stumbling, and laughing. I let him run, careful to watch every motion. Every leap, every trip, every clumsy strike told me what I needed to know. He would learn. He had to.
The sun rose higher, spilling golden light over the clearing, glinting off the weapons leaning against the tents. The camp felt alive, even in the quiet moments. Every rogue here trained themselves, hardened their bodies and minds. But Ryder, he was mine. He was the one I would mold, shape, and prepare to face a world that had underestimated us before.
I stepped closer to the small boy as he practiced a particularly wobbly leap over a rope. “Careful,” I warned. “Balance matters more than speed.”
He landed on his feet, knees bent, arms flailing. “I can do it, Dad!”
“Yes,” I said. “But remember your control and precision. Don’t just throw yourself at the world blindly. Let it come to you, and respond.”
He laughed, dashing toward the next obstacle. I let him go. He didn’t need the lectures repeated over and over. The lessons would sink in slowly, buried beneath play, exploration, and energy. One day, he would thank me for it. Either that or curse me.
Even as he ran, tumbled, and swung his toy sword, I imagined him older, leaner, sharper. I would make sure he had the skill, honed with patience and discipline, tempered with instinct. The boy he was today would become the man I needed him to be tomorrow.
I let out a quiet breath, leaning against the oak. “The twin kings think they’ve won,” I whispered to myself. “But they’ve never met you, Ryder. And when they do they will be caught off guard.”
Ryder skidded to a stop at the far end of the clearing, giggling, arms spread wide, chest heaving. “I did it!” he yelled. “I’m the fastest!”
I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile. He had a long way to go, years of training and growing before he would be ready. But the foundation was there, laid in secret, quietly, in this hidden camp. Every laugh, every tumble, every playful challenge was a lesson in patience, awareness, and discipline.
And one day, when the world thought the wars were over, Ryder would step forward. Then they would see.