POV: Third Person
The hearth burned low in the center of the modest stone house.
"I'm just saying," Sofia muttered, seated at the kitchen table with her arms crossed. "I don't like where this is going."
Erob sat across from her, elbows resting on the edge of the table, one hand loosely gripping a half-full mug of ale. He stared into it for a moment before speaking, letting the silence hang between them.
"He's not a child anymore," he said eventually. He took a slow sip. The mug hit the wood with a dull thud.
"Exactly the problem. What happens when hammering steel isn't enough for him anymore?"
Erob set down his mug with a quiet clink and leaned back slightly. "You think I haven't thought about that? I watch how he trains. How serious he is. He doesn't play around. Gets up early, works hard, and still pushes himself after the forge closes. Honestly, I thought he'd give up after a few days, especially since we told him he could only train if he kept up with real work. And you know I don't cut him any slack. But he never stops. Never really complains. Sometimes he grumbles, sure, but not like he means it."
Sofia sighed, tired and fierce all at once. "Of course I watch him. He's our son."
"He's stronger than I ever was at his age. Stronger than I am now," Erob said quietly. "But it's not just that. He's sharp. Notices things others miss. Adapts fast. At the forge, he figures out shortcuts I didn't teach him. In training, he's got real discipline. Doesn't waste time showing off. Doesn't chase praise. He just works. And keeps going."
"Not comforting, Erob. That makes it worse." Sofia shook her head, her voice tight. "I know he's talented. I know he's strong and clever. But I'm scared. I don't want him ending up as just a name on a list, some whispered story in a tavern. I want him home. Here. Safe. Maybe one day married to someone like Nina's daughter, or... even Tina." Her eyes flicked toward Gilo, who had stayed quiet the whole time.
"But not out there. Not chasing shadows with a blade."
"It scares me too. The way he's growing... what he might run toward. But stopping him just because we're afraid of where it might lead? That's not right. We'd be holding him back not because he's not ready, but because we aren't. And that's not fair to him."
"And what then? Just let him march into the world with a sword and some noble idea? He should be a guard. Or fight in the arena. Something structured. Safer."
"You really think Lucien wants to perform for a crowd?"
Sofia hesitated. The silence answered for her.
From the corner, Gilo cleared his throat. He had been sitting quietly by the fire, drink in hand, pretending not to listen and failing spectacularly.
"If I may," he said, setting down his cup, "I think you're both forgetting who we're talking about. Lucien's not some reckless kid running off with a stick and a story in his head. He's strange, yes. Unpredictable. But he's a good boy. Thoughtful. Kind, even if he pretends not to be."
He paused.
"And if we keep clipping his wings out of fear, we won't protect him. We'll just push him to fly without telling us. You want to keep him close? Then trust him. Or risk losing him for real."
They turned to look at him.
"In any case," Gilo added, his voice more serious now, "maybe now's not the best time to be debating Lucien's future."
Sofia narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"Because in a week, the son of House Hitra is coming."
Erob blinked. "That's new. No one's checked on us in years. Unless tax collectors count."
"During the last collection, I heard something. Hitra's patriarch is gravely ill. Might not have long. This visit? Too rushed. The letter only arrived this morning. Normally we get weeks' notice."
"Do they give a reason?" Sofia asked, tense.
"Land inspection. Supposedly." Gilo scoffed. "I've prepped the guesthouse. Let's hope they just want clean sheets and nothing more."
He hesitated.
"There's... one more thing."
Both turned.
"In two weeks, Tina goes home."
"For the betrothal?" Sofia asked sharply.
"Yes."
"Does Lucien know?" Erob asked.
"Sort of. He knows she's supposed to marry eventually. But they want her to start preparing: trade, estate management, noble etiquette, the usual."
"They set a date?"
"Month of Fire. When she turns sixteen."
"And the groom?"
"A noble family. Modest, but well-regarded. Financially stable. Politically quiet. From what I've heard, the boy's decent. Respectful. Bright, even. Could do worse."
Erob glanced at him. "You sound like you're already mourning something."
"Maybe," Gilo said with a sigh. "Or maybe I'm just starting to realize I'll be heading back home soon... and that my so-called retirement is probably going on pause."
"I suppose it's good to have noble connections," Erob murmured.
Sofia frowned. "Still... I wonder how Lucien will take losing his friend."
"I'd rather not think about it," Erob muttered. "He might go after her."
"I don't think so," Gilo said, shaking his head. "Lucien's smart. He knows not to get too close. He always keeps a certain distance from Tina. He understands she has her own path. If anything, he'll probably say he's bored and leave for an adventure the very next day."
Gilo chuckled, amused by his own words.
But Lucien's parents didn't laugh.
They shared a quiet, worried look.
POV: Lucien
"YES! FINALLY!"
The shout tears out of me like a fireball through a rotten scroll. Eight leaves. Ten. Not one cut. Perfect stillness. Blade humming with restraint.
Across the clearing, Tina looks up from her notebook, sprawled in the grass like it's a chaise lounge and she's on her fifth day of vacation.
"Wow," she says dryly. "You didn't cut the leaves. Congratulations. Truly, the foliage trembles."
"You're just jealous," I mutter, grinning like an idiot. I can't help it.
I hoist the sword onto my shoulder, still smiling. "It's getting late. Let's head back."
"Walk me." Tina says.
Of course she does.
Her house is barely four minutes from mine... but Tina logic defies spatial reasoning. I turn back, drop my sword off at the forge, and sigh.
"Let's go. Try not to get us attacked by monsters."
"Please. I've got my knight."
Naturally.
We walk toward the village chief's house. After a while, I ask, "How's your magic? Making progress?"
She looks me in the eye and stays silent for just a little too long.
"Fine," she says. Curt. A wall behind the word.
"Glad to hear it," I reply, pretending not to notice. I turn forward, keep walking. But I can feel her stare drilling into the back of my skull like she's trying to smite me with passive-aggressiveness.
I leave her at her doorstep. Turn back. On the way, I spot Richard, Edmond's kid, from the east side of the village. Son of a shepherd. Always smells faintly of wool and sun-dried manure. He stares at me. I stare back.
Short brown hair. Tanned skin. Green eyes. About thirteen. Right… this is the kid whose wrist I accidentally dislocated a couple of years ago.
We lock eyes. Then he pulls out a hatchet.
Really?
Don't tell me this is a revenge cliché. Please. I'm not even armed. Then again... maybe that's for the best. If I were armed, I'd have to explain why he's missing a limb.
But before I can say anything-
"Hey, um... Lucien? Hi," he starts, voice wavering. "So, uh... my dad asked me to give you this... well, actually, it's for your dad. He was wondering if Erob could take a quick look at a spear before he heads out in a few days. And, uh... this hatchet, it kinda cracked last week, and... uh—if you could maybe ask him to check it? He said he'll stop by the forge tomorrow. I mean... if that's okay?" He holds out the axe, visibly nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
I stare, deadpan.
"Alright. I'll see what I can do. Anything else?"
He shakes his head, hands me the axe, and walks off like someone who just avoided death.
What kind of reputation do I even have?
Then I think about it. Despite knowing everyone in the village, I've barely had any real interactions. Work, study, eat, sleep. That's it.
"Am I the weird one?"
I head home, tell Dad what happened, and we talk for a bit.
The evening is calm. Then night falls.
I can't sleep. Too much going on in my head. I think I've reached the point where sleep has become optional. Maybe it's the Ki, or maybe my body has just gotten used to functioning on a few scattered hours, like it's normal now.
Eventually, I give up. Grab the sword. Still sheathless.
Boots. Quiet steps. Out the door. Damn it, I forget how cold it gets at night. Again.
I head back inside, throw on something warmer, and step out again.
I look up at the moon, not full, not crescent. Somewhere in between.
"This is stupid," I whisper.
And yet, I walk.
Not to the old training tree. No. Past the shed. Beyond the fence. To the far edge. Where the border stones stand. Where that one lonely tree grows.
I stop.
My grip tightens. I take a few deep breaths and focus, replaying the leaf-cutting exercises in my mind.
"A sword that cuts nothing," I whisper.
I raise Flame Fang.
"Is one that can cut everything."
Lower stance. Breathe in.
"Please don't break," I whisper. "You're still new. I'm not ready to fix you yet."
I activate every enhancement I've got. And I move.
Same swing. Same arc. But this time, the intent changes. From "don't cut" to "cut."
Where before I wanted the blade passive, now I want it sharp. Decisive. Violent.
Contact.
A soft thunk. No crack. No splinters.
It slides.
The blade cuts clean, like the tree allows it. A perfect crescent, two inches deep. Not much, but not normal either. A sword shouldn't leave a mark like that on solid wood.
I stare.
Then laugh. Quiet. Wild.
"Okay," I whisper. "That's... definitely new."
[Ding]
"Noice," I mutter, and click my tongue, grinning in the dark.