The Way of the Blade

Little is known of Ab’ir’s earliest years. His parents, traveling merchants, abandoned him in the wilderness en route to Rimmen. He would have perished if not for a passing Wood Elf, who found him tucked into a basket under a lamppost near Two Moons at Tenmar Temple.

Laerael felt an instant fondness for the Khajiiti cub. She considered keeping him, but she knew he deserved a home where he could be raised in the ways of his own kind. So she took him to the priests of the Temple, leaving him in their care. The priests speculated that his mother, desperate and fearful, might have left him to protect him from his father, who intended to sell him into slavery—a grim fate not uncommon for the impoverished of that race. The truth, however, remains a mystery.

The Moon-Bishop at the temple entrusted Ab’ir to Sahndar, the Keeper of Balance, whose calm wisdom guided many at the temple. Sahndar became a father to Ab’ir, sitting with him under the night sky and sharing the stories of Jone and Jode. He explained the spiritual significance of their rare alignment, which heralds the birth of a new Mane, and revealed that Ab’ir, as a Suthay, was born under the dark phase of both moons. When Ab’ir mused over the meaning of his birth during a moonless night, Sahndar simply smiled and said, “It is not for the moons to tell us who we are, but for us to learn by walking their path.”

The temple was a place of learning and discipline. Its library held works by Amun-dro and other Khajiiti scholars, poets, and theologians. Ab’ir’s natural curiosity and intelligence thrived, and his light duties gave him ample time to explore the histories, philosophies, and rituals of his people. He had read of the Knahaten Flu, the burning of Senchal, and how the Morag Tong had slipped through the palace walls to strike down the Potentate—an act that shattered the Empire and left Elsweyr adrift. The precision of it, the way a single blade could undo nations, captured his young imagination, though he thought little of it beyond idle fascination. During the priests’ monthly courtyard rituals, Ab’ir showed remarkable aptitude for the Whispering Claw style, his movements flowing like the winds guided by Khenarthi.

Despite his idyllic upbringing, Ab’ir struggled with what he called “New Moon’s Darkness,” a gnawing emptiness that stemmed from questions about his abandonment. He often wondered who his parents were and why they had left him. Laerael would visit on occasion when she passed through, but she never had answers for him.

While they were away on a walk during one such visit, chaos struck back at the temple. Sheogorath, the Daedric Prince of Madness, appeared to Moon-Bishop Sizena, masquerading as the Skooma Cat. His whispers during her use of sacred sugar twisted her thoughts, and she, in turn, convinced Sahndar to leap from the temple’s highest spire. As Sahndar fell, Sheogorath’s laughter echoed through the temple, reverberating like the toll of a bell. It is said that Sheogorath laughed for days after the deed.

In the days that followed, the temple was cleansed by an adventurer, and the Skooma Cat’s influence was banished. But Ab’ir’s heart was heavy. The only father he had ever known was killed, and other priests at the temple had also died. The temple, once his sanctuary, felt empty and violated. He could no longer remain there and decided it was time to leave. It was the last he ever saw of the Wood Elf who had rescued him. He hadn’t even said goodbye.

It is not for the moons to tell us who we are, Sahndar had said. Ab’ir wondered if it was for the blade instead.

The dagger gleamed faintly in the dim light as Ab’ir lowered it toward the hunched figure on the cot. The room was in complete silence except for the rhythmic breathing of his target. His movements were deliberate, every step rehearsed, every breath controlled. He was the predator now, his prey lying defenseless before him.

Ab’ir gave the sleeping figure a final, careful look before bringing his dagger toward his back.

The shape quickly rolled over onto it, trapping the knife and squeezing Ab’ir’s hand. Ab’ir let out a sigh of disappointment as his master sat up in the cot.

“Still carrying your ghost, cub,” his mentor’s voice broke the silence, calm and steady. His pupil sat down on the floor next to him.

“The wind doesn’t think about being the wind. That’s why you hear it, but never catch it. You don’t walk through the night, child—you carry yourself with you, like a lantern you can’t blow out. I felt your eyes upon me before you even entered.”

Ab'ir gathered himself. The lesson was far from over.

His master leaned closer. “Do you know why I wake before your blade reaches me?”

Ab’ir shook his head.

The master tapped his own temple. “Because before your blade moves, your mind already has.” He exhaled slowly. “I feel you in the room because you are thinking of the strike, thinking of me, thinking of the outcome.”

He folded his hands and looked intently into Ab’ir’s eyes. “I am not like you. When I unsheath the blade I do not think of the strike, or the fear of failure. I am part of the rhythm, not separate from it. Until you understand that, you will remain a shadow chasing the light.”

Ab’ir’s thoughts drifted unbidden to his father’s death, to the placid expression rumored to have been on his face as he fell. Had he found the rhythm his master spoke of? Or had he simply let go?

“You will try again,” his master said, breaking the silence. “And you will fail again. And again. Until you forget what it means to fail.”

Ab’ir nodded, though his thoughts were far from the present moment. His master leaned back into his cot and spoke without turning. “I’ve nothing more to teach you, cub.”

Ab’ir stiffened. “What?”

“You have skill, but your mind works against you. You must learn to be nothing.” After a long pause he sighed and rolled over. “Perhaps you need a place where names do not matter. Or you can remain here and keep stealing those sweetrolls you are so fond of, since that is the one thing you seem able to do without thinking.”

Ab’ir stared at the ground, his thoughts churning. His master might as well have thrown him out.

The next evening, as the city lights flickered against the waves, he stood at the docks, watching the ships rock gently in the harbor. They smelled of brine, tar, and the sweat of men who asked no questions. He thought of distant lands, of contracts, of places where coin bought silence and names carried no memory.

He needed work. More importantly, he needed experience. He recalled childhood stories of the masters of stealth—those who were once officially sanctioned but were now outlawed. Perhaps they would take him in. Perhaps what he needed now were the Morag Tong.

He walked toward the closest slip, where a single candle flickered at a booth. The navigator, Lienalel, looked up, studying him with a knowing glance.

“I know that face. Sore feet, am I right? Climb on board. I’ll get you where you need to go.”