The cold keepsake

Cassian Ven Dyke, a bastard of the noble Ven Dyke family, trudged through the muddy streets of the slums. The rain had been relentless for days, turning the ground into a mire. His tattered cloak did little to keep the cold out, but he didn't care. His mind was solely focused on the old training school ahead. The master's condition had worsened, and Cassian knew this visit might be his last.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, the familiar scent of old wood and sweat filling his nostrils. The training hall was empty, save for the makeshift bed in the corner where the master lay. The once-vibrant man who had taken Cassiane in when he had nowhere else to go was now a shadow of his former self, his breaths shallow and laboured.

"Master," Cassian called softly, kneeling beside the old man.

The master's eyes fluttered open, a faint smile touching his lips as he saw Cassian. "Cass... my boy," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the rain beating against the roof. "You've come."

"I had to," Cassian replied, his heart aching at the sight of his mentor's frailty. "I owe you everything."

Cassian had met his master Russel five years ago when he was just a malnourished Nine-year-old living in the slums of the capital city, Valdora. Despite being the bastard son of the powerful Ven Dyke family, his parents' death had left him with nothing but a name and the harsh reality of street life. Russel had taken him in, not as a trainee, for Cassian's weak body couldn't handle the rigorous training, but as a caretaker. In return, Russel had taught him to read and ensured he never went hungry.

Russel's voice was now a shadow of its former strength, raspy and faint. "Cassian," he called, and Cassian immediately moved closer, kneeling beside the old wooden bed.

"Yes, Master?" Cassian replied, his voice steady but filled with concern.

The old swordsman reached under his pillow and pulled out a small, ornate box. His hands trembled as he handed it to Cassian. "Open it," he instructed.

Cassian carefully opened the box, revealing a beautiful, intricately designed necklace. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, with a gemstone that seemed to pulse with a hidden power.

"This necklace has been in my family for generations," Russel began, his eyes reflecting a mix of nostalgia and sadness. "I have no kin to pass it on to. The school has been sold, and I have nothing else to give you."

Cassian's eyes widened. "Master, I—"

Russel shook his head weakly. "Take it. Let it protect you when I no longer can." He paused, taking a shallow breath. "Promise me, Cassian. Promise you'll wear it."

Cassian swallowed hard, nodding. "I promise, Master. I'll wear it and keep it safe."

Russel managed a faint smile. "Good. You've been like a son to me, Cassian. Remember, you're stronger than you think," he said, his eyes teary as he struggled to keep them open. His lips trembled, but they curved into a tired smile as he rested his head. "Now I'm feeling a bit weary, boy. Don't forget to wake me up in the morning."

As the first light of dawn filtered through the dusty windows of the old training school, Cassian sat beside Russel's bed, clutching the necklace in his hands. The weight of grief pressed upon him as he struggled to comprehend the sudden emptiness in the room. Russel Ironclad, his mentor and guardian, had passed away in the quiet hours of the night, leaving behind memories and a legacy embodied in the necklace now resting against Cassian's chest.

Cassian's eyes were red and puffy from tears shed in silent mourning. He remembered the lessons Russel had imparted, not only in swordsmanship—which Cassian could never fully grasp due to his frail physique—but in life itself. Russel had been a father figure to him, a beacon of kindness and wisdom in the harsh world of Valdora's slums.

A knock on the door broke the solemn silence, and Cassian looked up to see several somber-faced individuals entering the room. They were members of the local burial guild, tasked with handling the remains of the deceased.

One of them, a stout man with graying hair, approached Cassian with a mixture of sympathy and practicality. "I'm sorry for your loss, lad," he said gently, placing a comforting hand on Cassian's shoulder.

Cassian nodded silently, his gaze drifting to Russel's peaceful face, now covered by a white cloth. The reality of Russel's death settled heavily upon him, and he clutched the necklace tighter, seeking solace in its familiar weight.

"We'll take care of everything from here," the man continued, gesturing towards Russel's body. "He'll be given a proper burial, as he deserves."

Cassian nodded again, his throat tight with unspoken emotions. He watched silently as the burial guild members respectfully lifted Russel's body onto a stretcher and began to carry him away.

Alone in the room now, Cassian stood up slowly, still holding the necklace in his hand. He examined it closely, tracing the intricate design with his fingers. The necklace was indeed unusual—a three-pointed star, with one point smaller and duller than the other two, which were longer and slender. It was made entirely of silver, gleaming softly in the morning light, without a trace of rust or tarnish. A black thread bound the points where they converged, adding to its mysterious allure.

With a deep breath, Cassian draped the necklace around his neck, feeling its cool touch against his skin. For the first time since losing his parents, he had a purpose—a responsibility given to him by his master, to protect the necklace with his life.

As Cassian stepped out of the old building that had been his home for the past year, the dangerous world wasted no time in reminding him of its harsh realities. Sharp, cruel eyes bore into him by a figure lurking nearby. The person's gaze was menacing, but it was their sinister smile that would have sent chilled Cassian's bones, as if it belonged to a devil in human form. They watched him intently, shadowing his every move as he made his way back.