“Again,” Elias’ cold voice commanded in his peculiar Scandinavian accent. I don’t know what was worse, being beaten down like a dog in the street, or the indifference it was done with. There wasn’t the faintest trace of enjoyment or dislike on his face. Blood ran down my chin from a split lip and I spit on the ground. Glaring hatred at the man, I stood up. I’d have bruises. Shit. Mom would be pissed when I went on one of my rare home visits tomorrow.

Levelling my staff in a battle-ready stance, I turned and spread my feet, advancing on him slowly. Standing evenly at five feet two, we had roughly the same build and range, but his balding head testified to his age, and the years of experience he had on me. We exchanged exactly seven blows before his staff smacked across the left side of my head again. I reeled from the blow, falling on my ass, dark spots dominating my vision briefly. Tears welled up in my eyes, not from the pain but from the embarrassment I felt.

Eleven years old and all I felt when this grown Swedish man beat me in combat was embarrassment. Talk about damaged. I blinked the tears away, grit my teeth and stood up for what felt like the fiftieth time today.

“Watch your footwork. You’re choreographing your moves in advance, making you predictable and easy to read. Go with the flow of combat, stop thinking too hard on your moves and make reactionary decisions. Come.”

Reengaging, we clashed, and I tried to do as he said. It was really hard. I stopped counting our hits and blocks, instead concentrating on becoming one with the staff. Left, right, left, sweep, chop, thrust, my movements came faster and faster, until suddenly –

Whack

– my staff connected with Elias’ groin, and he collapsed to the ground.

Uh oh.

Most of my instructors were prideful creatures. This wasn’t good. I threw my staff to the floor and ran from the basement before a beating came my way - or worse, he could force me to eat banana pizza, a staple in Swedish cuisine. Opening the door, I found my father standing on the opposite side. He took in my appearance, then looked past me.

He nodded once in acknowledgement. “It is about time we find you a new instructor, Ethan.”

I breathed a sigh in relief.

One thing we learn as we grow older is to temper and match our expectations to our surroundings. As kids we don't really expect much, except maybe at Christmas and birthdays, but as we get older we learn to differentiate, as a skill that we pick up along the way. If we don't, we risk disappointment being a frequent companion.

My family has a pretty successful business that we’ve run for generations, some 200 years or so. What we do isn't really important, save to say that it's within the medical industry. That's where I made my first mistake. I thought the life I was leading was priming me to become a part of that. That the hardships I was going through served a purpose. That was my expectation.

It started at age seven. That summer I was unceremoniously shipped off to a prestigious all-boys boarding school in rural Louisiana. Bye mom, bye dad, hello high-class one-percenter outfit I had no place being a part of. It came out of left field and I didn't know about until roughly a week before I had to leave home.

The grounds were old - but pretty - with plenty of forest and hills in the adjacent lands. A good place to maybe make some friends and have an adventure or two. I wish. Appearances can be deceiving.

It was insanely competitive. Think military academy on speed. Leaderboards, gold stars and written honours kept the best of friends dishonest and ready to stab each other in the back at a moment's notice. It was all the same to me, I didn't have any friends that could stab me in the back to begin with.

Our family owned the estate, because of course we did, and daddy dearest made sure I was given “privileges” the others were not. It was an open secret, and it kept me even more isolated from everyone. To this day I have no idea if it was jealousy or fear that kept them away. Maybe it was both.

Naturally, the dean knew what was going on but never protested on my behalf. Not that I blame him. My family was funding the school, after all. Politics and all that, I’m sure you understand.

Those "privileges" involved robbing me of my childhood. As soon as I was situated, tutors became a part of my every day life. In everything from mundane things like math and languages, to more abstract things like martial arts and wilderness survival. While attending classes in school on the side, naturally. Twelve to fourteen hours a day. Every. Day. And I do mean every day. The only free time I had were the two or three hours I had before I went to bed. Over the years that lonely existence had made me angry and closed-off, with a short temper and bitter thoughts.

Six months before I turned eighteen and could legitimately leave the prison, I called school; I was having a rare Sunday lunch with the old man. After my mom died he'd intensified my training and become a mythological creature that would only appear once in a blue moon instead of once a week. As usual, it was a polite and superficial affair where he’d ask how my schoolwork and training were going. I’d respond like the good little boy I was and then we’d just sit quietly and eat our food.

Except today, he suddenly broke the silence.

“Ethan.” I looked up.

“You will become an adult in six months, and I will no longer legally have a say in your life as your guardian. At that point I can only offer advice. As it stands, you have accomplished every task I have set before you. Some were harder than others, but we are only human, we cannot be expected to excel at everything. Your mother would have been proud of you,” he told me.

She probably would. But not you? Asshole, I thought to myself as I looked at him with a blank expression.

He continued, unrelenting. “Your training and schooling are almost over, but circumstances have conspired against me, and I will need for you to leave for New Orleans tonight. An associate of mine will arrive here to accompany you.” A spike of adrenaline tore through my body in shock.

“You’re sending me away?” I asked eventually, surprised at how steady my voice was.

He nodded at me, “Yes.”

"Why?"

"I cannot tell you." Well, that was... strange.

“What am I supposed to do in New Orleans?”

“You are to follow my associate’s suggestions,” he explained, “he will help you finish your training and then work with you to figure out what you want to do, going forward.”

Wait, what?

My mind reset. I was quiet for a good twenty seconds before I responded.

“Father,” I replied hesitantly, “it was my impression that you would want me to take a larger interest in the family business, and… take over once you are gone.”

“A valid point, and an admirable position,” he nodded my way. “But no. The company is in my subordinates’ capable hands. My people are in key positions on the board of directors and can take over for me at need. After that, the company will still belong to our family but will be outside of our influence. Your desire to step in is noted, but ultimately unnecessary.”

Unnecessary? I thought to myself. He didn’t trust me to assist with the company. Was I not competent enough? “Then what was it all for?” my voice came out as the barest whisper.

Expectations.

“What? Speak up, boy.”

During my numerous years of tutoring and training, I’d been taught to always speak precisely and politely in my father’s presence, but that went right out the window.

Standing forcefully, my chair was flung backwards as I flew into a hot rage, “THEN WHAT WAS IT ALL FOR, DAD?” I exploded. As I said, expectations.

Something inside me reared its head, but I pushed it down, my patience non-existent. Laughing shrilly, I lowered my voice slightly so people wouldn’t come running. “Why the FUCK did you put me through almost eleven years of strict training and hellish tutoring if not to take over the company? Were you keeping me away from mom?” I demanded, my voice shaking.

He looked puzzled and offended. Was that hurt? No, it couldn’t be. “First of all, I do not appreciate the tone of your voice,” he chastised. “Secondly, your mother saw you as much as she was able, I would not intentionally keep you from her. She would have wanted you to complete your schooling. Thirdly, you being here has nothing to do with running the company, it was simply Tradition. Like I said, circumstances–”

“You don’t KNOW what she would’ve wanted! Did you even ask her?” I interrupted him angrily, “circumstances? Tradition. Fucking TRADITION?!” my voice rose in pitch again. I felt the tableware shake in response to my emotions.

“Tradition? All this talk of Tradition, but we don’t live in the Middle Ages anymore, dad. I’m not going to be challenged to a duel out of nowhere. Normal kids aren’t supposed to be able to fight for their lives. I could have had a life; I could’ve had friends! I could’ve spent more time with MOM!” I roared the last word. I sounded like a petulant child – which I was, to be fair.

“I felt it was more prudent to equip you with the tools to survive.”

“Survive. Survive,” my voice took on another hint of hysteria, “It’s the 21^st century dad, you make it sound like I’ll be fighting for my life when–”

“Enough, Ethan,” cold steel reinforced his words.

There was a sudden weight to them, and I had the feeling of an otherworldly force compelling me to silence. I stood, locked in place – at attention – my anger boiling under the surface, unable to move. But no matter how he treated me, he couldn’t take away my rage. Not showing any emotion was a skill I’d perfected over the years.

“We have discussed these matters before, albeit not so vigorously. I have done what I felt was best, as my father before me and his father before him. Having you leave is unorthodox, but you must do this last task for me. Please,” he said the last word with a note of sincerity I hadn’t heard in a long time, “if you do not trust me, at least trust when I tell you it is what your mother would have wanted.”

The pressure eased. I didn’t think any more of it, I was too stunned at his words. He never asked nicely. More importantly, he would never abuse mom’s memory intentionally. He was telling the truth.

Whether it was his statement itself, or the termination of whatever event that compelled me to hold my tongue that made me able to speak again, I’m not sure, yet I did my best to argue my point. “But dad–” I managed.

“I have said my piece on this matter,” his voice had a tinge of eerie finality to it, eyes frosty. “Hagen is instructed to help you prepare. I will be there to see you off later tonight. Now sit down and eat or leave.”

He returned to picking at his meal while I stood rooted to the spot. Several emotions were warring within me, my supper completely forgotten. Rage, confusion, frustration, of course, but somewhere in the back of my mind a hint of excitement made itself known.

The consequences of his words were slowly making me realize that I’d no longer be confined to the grounds. After all these years I could actually leave. I don’t know how long I stood there, contemplating, but as the realization finally hammered its way through the barriers in my brain, acceptance slowly won out over rage. New expectations replaced the old ones.

I was still seething, but at least in the future, I'd be seething somewhere else.

“As you wish, dad,” I managed, my voice void of emotion.

I thought I heard a muted, “’m… rry,” but that was surely my imagination, so I decided to ignore it. I spun on my heels and as I left for the foyer I spotted Hagen, my caretaker and ‘manager’, for lack of a better word, standing at the door.

He’d been a part of my life since my mom died when I was fourteen. When my father turned up the intensity of my training, Hagen was brought on to assist me with various tasks, to optimize my schedule. I think I cared for him, in a way that you can care for someone who keeps an obvious professional distance.

Short, average, and unobtrusive he had this… uncanny ability to appear when I needed him, or blend into the background so I wouldn’t notice him. Everything about him screamed ‘ordinary’. Everything except for his eyes.

They were a sparkling green colour and held two pupils each. A condition called polycoria. The first year or so of knowing him, it’d given me the creeps. When I was fifteen, I finally mustered up the courage to ask him about it and scolded myself for being silly, when he told me what it was. Just another medical condition.

He opened the door and gestured for me to go through. “Young master–” he started, but before he could get any further, I’d walked past him, speaking all the while.

“Hagen, sorry, before we do anything else I need to blow off some steam.” My anger had flooded my body with so much energy I was practically vibrating and if there was one thing my combat training had taught me, it was to work off my frustrations early. “Is Alfred still in?” I continued as I headed towards the basement.

“He is, young master,” Hagen replied following into lockstep behind me.

"Good." I squared my shoulders and got ready for a fight.