Elion's lessons began before dawn.
Ruvan shivered in the grey morning light as he gripped Solrend, its fractured blade wrapped in cloth to avoid accidental cuts. His arms burned from hours of drills. Sweat soaked his tunic despite the biting forest chill.
"Again," Elion said calmly.
Ruvan exhaled, stepping forward in a diagonal slash. The movement felt awkward with Solrend's uneven weight, but Elion only nodded.
"Better. Your balance is improving."
Ruvan lowered the sword, gasping. "How… does this help me fight raiders? They won't stand still and let me pose at them."
Elion raised an eyebrow. "And if your footwork falters, they'll kill you before you take a second step."
Ruvan scowled but reset his stance. As he moved, Solrend pulsed faintly under his grip, as if guiding him. Each swing left flickering blue trails in the cold air.
They trained until sunlight speared through the pine canopy, warming the mossy clearing. Birds scattered as they packed their sparse belongings. Ruvan strapped Solrend to his back with rough cord. His limbs ached, but he felt… steadier. Like the trembling apprentice in the forge had been burned away by the blade's silent heat.
Elion watched him quietly. "Today, we reach the trade road. There is a waystation a few leagues south. If we move quickly—"
The snap of a twig silenced him.
Ruvan froze. His gaze darted through the trees. Shadows moved between the trunks – five men in patched leather, dirty scarves covering their faces. One carried a rusted spear. Another had an iron axe strapped to his belt.
Highwaymen.
"Well, well," drawled the tallest, stepping forward. His scarf was crimson, streaked with dried blood. "What have we here? A pretty priest and his boy squire."
The men laughed harshly.
Elion shifted subtly, hands behind his back as golden light flickered between his fingers. Ruvan's heart hammered. He reached for Solrend, but the leader shook his head.
"Don't even think about it, lad," he sneered. "Hand over your packs, coins, and that fancy sword. Might let you keep your boots."
"Leave us," Elion said softly. "There is nothing for you here."
The leader's eyes narrowed. "Oh, there's plenty." He stepped forward, brandishing a short blade. "Starting with your pretty face—"
A sharp whistle cut through the clearing.
Suddenly, the man stiffened. His eyes went wide. Then he crumpled forward, revealing an arrow jutting from his back.
The highwaymen spun around in panic. Another whistle – another arrow. The man with the spear collapsed, gurgling as blood bubbled from his mouth.
"Who's there?!" shouted one with an axe, whipping his head around.
The bushes rustled. A figure stepped into view, lowering a short hunting bow with lazy precision.
He was tall and wiry, with sun-browned skin and a shaggy mane of chestnut hair tied back in a rough tail. A thin scar ran from his left eyebrow to his cheek, giving his grin a rakish tilt. Leather armour hugged his frame, adorned with small bronze plates and pockets overflowing with herbs, feathers, and glimmering charms.
"Morning, lads," he drawled. His voice was smooth, almost playful. "Lovely day for an ambush, isn't it?"
The remaining highwaymen charged him with a yell. The stranger sidestepped the first clumsy swing, driving his elbow into the attacker's throat. As the man fell choking, he drew a slender blade with a flourish and ducked under another attacker's axe, slicing his hamstring in a clean motion.
Ruvan watched, stunned. The stranger moved like water, each strike efficient and graceful. Within moments, the highwaymen lay groaning on the forest floor. The survivor scrambled away into the trees, screaming.
The roguish man turned to Ruvan and Elion, wiping his blade clean on a fallen bandit's cloak.
"Well, that was refreshing," he said with a broad grin. "Nothing like a morning brawl to get the blood flowing."
Elion inclined his head slightly. "Thank you… stranger."
"Kellan Drave," he replied, sliding his sword back into its sheath with a theatrical spin. "Mercenary, scout, expert thief, occasional herbalist, and purveyor of fine sarcasm."
He extended his hand to Ruvan. "And you, my wide-eyed friend?"
"Ruvan," he said warily, shaking his hand. Kellan's grip was strong, calloused but warm. His hazel eyes twinkled with unspoken amusement.
"Elion Karr," Elion said softly. "Thank you for your aid."
Kellan waved it off. "Was hunting grouse when I heard their idiotic laughter. Figured someone decent might need a hand." He glanced at Solrend's wrapped hilt over Ruvan's shoulder, eyes narrowing with interest.
"Interesting blade you've got there," he said casually. "Doesn't look like local forgework."
"It's… old," Ruvan said quickly.
Kellan chuckled. "Everything worth wielding is."
He crouched beside one of the fallen bandits, rifling through pouches until he found a small satchel of coins and a tarnished silver ring.
"Compensation," he said cheerfully, tossing the ring to Ruvan. "Consider it your share."
Ruvan stared at the ring in his palm. Its surface was engraved with a faded crest – a sunburst over a sword. He frowned, but Kellan had already turned away, checking the other bodies with deft efficiency.
Elion regarded Kellan quietly. "You're skilled," he said. "Too skilled to waste your life as a lone mercenary."
Kellan flashed him a roguish smile. "Ah, but the freedom's priceless, priest."
"I'm no priest."
"Whatever you say."
He stood, brushing dirt from his knees, then slung his bow across his back. "Well, friends, the trade road is crawling with scum like these. Lucky for you, I happen to be heading south myself."
Ruvan shifted uncomfortably. "Why help us? You don't even know who we are."
Kellan raised an eyebrow. "Because I'm bored. And you look interesting. Especially you, Ash Hands."
Ruvan blinked. "Ash Hands?"
Kellan gestured at his stained palms, still dark from forge soot and days of travel. "Blacksmith's apprentice, right? Thought so. Don't worry, your secret's safe."
He winked. "Besides, I've always wanted to see what happens when a terrified farm boy ends up carrying a blade older than the gods themselves."
Ruvan stiffened, but Kellan just chuckled. "Relax. I won't pry… much."
He began walking south, whistling a jaunty tune. After a moment, Elion followed silently. Ruvan hesitated, then adjusted Solrend on his back and hurried after them, heart pounding with unease and curiosity.
They walked for hours through thinning woods, Kellan leading with an easy swagger. He pointed out edible mushrooms, hidden trap snares, and ancient stone markers etched with Old Tongue runes. He spoke constantly, telling bawdy jokes, retelling mercenary tales, and humming folk songs Ruvan had only heard old Marrick mumble half-drunk by the forge.
"…so the noblewoman slaps me and screams, 'That's not what I meant by polishing my silver!'" Kellan finished with a grin. Elion shook his head, faintly amused.
But Ruvan barely heard. His eyes kept flicking to Solrend's hilt. Even wrapped, it seemed heavier today. Each step felt like walking into a future he hadn't chosen.
At dusk, they set camp near a mossy stream. Kellan lit a small fire with practiced ease, humming softly as he roasted two rabbits on a spit.
Elion sat cross-legged, eyes closed, palms resting on his knees as golden threads pulsed faintly around his fingers.
Ruvan sat apart, staring at the flames. He felt Kellan's gaze on him.
"Tell me, Ash Hands," Kellan said softly, poking the rabbit to check its crisping skin. "What do you want from all this? Glory? Revenge? Freedom?"
Ruvan looked up. Shadows danced across Kellan's scarred face, his smile softer now.
"I… I just wanted to forge swords," Ruvan whispered. "Not… not wield them."
Kellan's eyes flickered to Solrend.
"Too late for that," he murmured. Then he smiled again, bright and careless. "Eat up. We've got a long road ahead. And tomorrow, I'll show you how to kill a man with just your thumb."
Ruvan blinked in alarm. Kellan laughed loudly, tossing him a rabbit leg.
And as the fire crackled under the silent stars, Ruvan felt a small, hesitant spark flicker within him – the warmth of knowing he wasn't alone anymore.