By the time Michael and Sir Edward returned to the orphanage, the bodyguard and the three wealthy children were already gone—taken to the hospital, most likely.
Later that evening, the orphanage gates rattled with black sedans and expensive shoes.
Three sets of parents arrived—faces tight with fury, arrogance masked as grief. One man in a wool overcoat pointed an accusing finger at the doors.
"I want the boy brought out. Right now," he barked. "You're harboring a criminal."
Sir Edward met them at the threshold, hands clasped behind his back.
"The children are resting," he said calmly.
"My son has a fractured wrist, a broken nose, and trauma to the face!"
"Curious," Sir Edward said, "given how the report we received stated he tripped. Several times. Into his friends."
"Don't play games with us," a tall woman snapped. "We'll sue. Shut this place down."
Sir Edward didn't flinch. He stepped forward slightly, and for a moment, even the breeze seemed to still.
"This orphanage has stood for nearly seventy years. It has outlived three wars, five administrations, and countless men louder than you."
"You think we're afraid of some retired professor playing guardian?" the first man sneered. "This is about compensation, Edward. Either the boy is expelled and handed over—or we take everything."
Sir Edward leaned closer, just enough that the man had to tilt back.
"You want compensation?" he said softly. "Fine. The hospital bill for Elliot's injuries has been paid in full. As for your children, they're lucky to walk away with bones still intact. That's your compensation."
The woman opened her mouth to protest, but Sir Edward raised a hand—not in threat, but in authority. The air grew heavier.
"I suggest," he continued, "you teach your sons that consequences don't discriminate based on tax bracket. Because next time…"
He glanced toward the upper floor of the orphanage—toward the window where a lone boy sat behind the curtain, silent and still.
"…I may not arrive in time to stop him."
A beat passed. And then the silence broke.
"You'll regret this," the younger man muttered, straightening his coat. "There are people we know—powerful people. You can't shield him forever."
The woman beside him added coldly, "No one forgets the ones who break bones, Edward. No matter how young. No matter how protected."
The third, quieter father simply adjusted his cufflinks. "The world is watching. Be careful what message you send."
Sir Edward's expression didn't shift. He simply nodded once.
"Good evening."
The parents stood a moment longer, as if trying to pull some victory from the silence, but none came. With huffs, clenched jaws, and shoes clapping like judgments, they turned and vanished into their waiting cars.
Inside the orphanage, behind the veil of drawn curtains and thick walls, a dozen children listened to the echoes fade.
And somewhere, whispered with something between fear and wonder:
Michael.
And upstairs, in his room, Michael stared out the window—watching the tail lights disappear—wondering what line he had crossed, and if he could ever go back.
When Sir Edward returned to the orphanage, his expression was calm, even amused. He greeted the social workers with a familiar warmth, laughing softly at their anxious expressions.
"No, I won't be handing Michael over to anyone," he said, brushing off their questions with practiced ease. "Kids make mistakes. Sometimes… large ones."
The laughter that followed, quiet and aged, softened the room. The tension dissolved like ice in warm tea.
Everything returned to normal—or at least, the appearance of normalcy.
Everything… except for the boy who sat motionless in his room, staring out the window, eyes fixed on nothing but ghosts.
Knock knock.
The door creaked open.
Sir Edward stood in the doorway, a shadow cast across his features by the dim hall light.
"May I come in, Michael?"
Michael didn't respond. But he didn't tell him to leave either.
Sir Edward stepped inside and gently closed the door behind him.
The room was simple. Spare. Books stacked neatly. Sheets folded tight. And a boy hunched by the window, arms wrapped around his knees like armor.
"I thought you might want to talk," Sir Edward said, easing down into the creaky desk chair.
Michael didn't look at him.
Silence stretched.
Sir Edward waited.
Then, softly, "That wasn't your first time hurting people like that... was it?"
Michael's eyes stayed forward, but something in his jaw tightened.
"…No."
"You've been trained. Not just to defend yourself, but to weaponize it."
Still no answer. But a slow, pained nod.
Edward sighed. "I've seen a lot of things in my life. But that wasn't the fury of a boy. That was the precision of a soldier."
Finally, Michael spoke. His voice was hoarse, distant. "They didn't raise but they called it discipline. Conditioning. A purpose. But it was always the same thing."
His hand tightened slightly over his forearm.
"Pain."
Sir Edward's gaze softened. "You don't have to tell me the whole story. But if you ever want to, I'll listen."
Michael turned his head slightly, just enough to see the older man from the corner of his eye.
"Why do you care?"
Edward smiled faintly, though the corners of his lips twitched with something closer to grief.
"Because once, a long time ago, I wore a uniform that turned boys into weapons too. I served a crown that told me honor was found at the end of a sword. I followed orders."
He paused.
"And I buried a wife who begged me not to. I buried a daughter I never got to hold."
The silence thickened, reverent and raw.
"I left that life behind. And I came here. To atone. To protect the kids who still have a chance."
Michael looked away again, and his voice came out smaller than before.
"I don't think I'm one of those kids."
Sir Edward stood and crossed the room. He placed a hand gently on Michael's shoulder—not firm, not demanding. Just present.
"You are."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy this time. It was calm. Waiting.
Then Sir Edward stepped back.
"But right now," he continued, "you're a storm, Michael. And this place… it can't hold you for long. Not with families like theirs banging on the gates, demanding blood."
Michael's eyes narrowed.
"So you are kicking me out."
"No," Sir Edward said, firm. "I'm giving you a choice."
He moved toward the door, then paused.
He turned slightly, enough for the hallway light to cast a soft gold edge across his profile.
"There's a school," he said. "A place for children like you. Not like that house, not like your past. Real teachers. Real guardians. A place that doesn't train killers but a place that nurture the future"
Michael's brows furrowed.
Sir Edward continued, It's concealed—ancient. They call it Ashthorne. Most believe it's only a legend—an academy shrouded in mist, where students are taught not only to master their gifts, but to decide the kind of person they wish to become.
Michael turned fully now, searching the older man's face for any hint of deceit.
"And if I say no?" he asked quietly.
"Then you stay," Sir Edward replied. "Here. With me. With Mia and Daniel. You'll have a room. Meals. A life. I'll shield you as long as I can. But you'll always be hiding. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"And if I say yes?"
Sir Edward smiled—faintly, but with something warm behind it.
"Then you leave at dawn. I'll bring you to someone I trust—she'll take you there safely, though no one else in the orphanage will see you leave. She will take you north, through fog and forests and into a place that has a lot more of people like you."
Michael looked down at his hands. The ones that had hurt. He closed his eyes for a long moment.
And then asked, not as a soldier, not as a weapon, but as a boy trying to believe again—
"Will there be people like Daniel there?"
Sir Edward nodded. "Some. Maybe even someone who understands you better than anyone else ever could."
Michael stood, walking to the door until only a few feet separated him from the man who had—without demanding it—become an ember of hope.
"Will you come with me?"
Sir Edward's smile faded into something gentler.
"No. But I'll be waiting. So if ever you need to return… the door will remain open. For you."
A long silence followed.
Then Michael, after everything—after blood, after silence, after a lifetime of pain—reached out and placed the folded paper with the copied line from the library into Sir Edward's hand.
"When the inner flame stirs…" he said softly, "time no longer holds dominion."
Sir Edward looked down at the words. Then at the boy before him with shock.
"I think," he said finally grinning, "your flame is already waking."
And as he stepped back into the hall, he added,
"Get some rest. Tomorrow… your real story begins."
The door clicked shut behind him.
And Michael, for the first time in years, allowed himself to hope.