He had always believed in her since young. It didn't matter that the elders of the community frowned upon a girl learning how to fight. Why should they care? They didn't witness the uncle, whom he grown to love, honor and respect, thrust the dagger into his father's temple.
It haunted him every night - the muffled cry of pain and surprise; the brief look of anger that turned into anguish.
That afternoon, he had knocked over several porcelain vases while imitating moves from the sacred Scroll of Fight. It was not on purpose, and he knew Father would probably just heave a sigh, and then beckon him to clamour onto the bed and be regaled with stories of the vases and their mythical powers.
If they were that powerful, surely they could put the pieces back together again, he reasoned. Father would probably announce to the Royal Court that a rat had broken in during the night and caused the vases to topple and break.
Yet every time he wanted to tell Father about it, something seemed to hold him back. And so night fell, but no matter how hard he tried, he just could not sleep.
At the age of five, he had promised Father he would uphold the value of honesty, and this seemed to be keeping him awake. Finally, he could stand the restlessness no more and headed down the secret passage that interlinked his room and Father's. If Father was asleep, it would mean a sleepless night. If Father was still awake... perhaps there was something mythical about those vases.
He reached the end of the passage and was about to knock on the wall when he heard the door open and close quickly. 'Surely Father isn't going out this late', he thought to himself and peered in through a crack on the wall. It was his uncle.
'Perhaps they have important matters of the State to discuss", he reasoned and was about to turn and return a while later till he saw it.
The glint of the dagger.
