The problem with being fast is that you feel the hit coming, but you're too committed to stop it.
My own momentum slammed me into the hard-packed dirt of our yard. The impact knocked the wind out of me. Again.
"Dead."
My father, David Thorne, stood over me, not even winded. He wasn't a giant from the old tales, just a head taller and twice as broad as any man in Vale. To me, he was a mountain I couldn't climb.
"I was faster that time," I wheezed, pushing myself up.
"You were first," he corrected, his voice a low rumble. "Speed is useless if it runs you onto your enemy's blade. Your Aura makes you strong, Samael. It doesn't make you smart in a fight."
Aura. The power in our blood. It made us tough and strong, and to any Essence user, it felt like a quiet void where the world's energy just… stopped. Right now, mine was buzzing under my skin with pure frustration.
---
Later, the real work began. Not training, but business.
"Take this to Old Man Hemlock," Dad said, handing me a carefully wrapped long knife.
The leather sheath was plain, but I could feel the faint, cool hum of the enchantment woven into the steel beneath. A sharpness charm, probably.
"He paid half up front. Negotiate the rest. Don't let him lowball you. He'll try."
I nodded, slinging the package over my shoulder. This was my real talent. Fighting? I was all haste. But talking? Bargaining? That's where I could win.
---
Vale wasn't new to us. We'd been here since I was four. The locals didn't stare anymore.
I got nods from farmers heading to the fields, a wave from the woman running the bakery.
"Morning, Samael!" called out Mrs. Gable, weeding her vegetable patch. "Your grandma want any more of those bitterleaf herbs?"
"I'll ask her!" I shouted back.
This was normal. We were normal. The only thing that ever got a second glance was my father's work. And that's what I was carrying.
---
Old Man Hemlock was in his workshop, tinkering with an Essence-powered water pump that was sputtering weakly. He felt my approach before he saw me; I watched him shiver slightly as my Aura's quiet field brushed against his senses.
He looked up. "Ah. The Thorne boy. Got my blade?"
I unwrapped it, letting him see the fine gleam of the metal. "Sharp enough to cut a shadow," I said, repeating one of my dad's lines. "And it'll hold its edge for a year, even against beast-hide."
Hemlock grunted, picking it up. He tested the balance. "Good weight. The enchantment feels… stable." He tried to hide his approval. "So, the rest of the payment. How's fifty silver sound?"
I almost laughed. He was starting low. "One-fifty," I said, my voice flat. "The ore wasn't cheap. The enchantment took my mom half a day. This isn't a common pig-iron sticker."
We went back and forth. His pump sputtered in the background, its Essence flickering weakly in the presence of my Aura.
I saw him glance at it, a flicker of unease in his eyes. It was a reminder of what we were—a power that could silence their world.
I used it.
"One-twenty," I said, final. "Or I take it to the hunters' lodge. They'll pay one-eighty without blinking."
He scowled, but he saw I wasn't budging. He counted out the coins. "You drive a hard bargain for a kid."
"I'm a Thorne," I said, pocketing the money. "It's what we do."
---
Walking back, the coins felt heavy in my pocket. A success.
But it didn't feel like enough.
Bargaining for a better price wasn't the same as earning real respect. It wasn't the same as being the Kingdom Sentinel, the guardian who stood between the kingdom and its enemies.
A warrior so strong, his very name would make people forget that Giants were ever feared. They'd only see a protector.
---
That night, after a dinner of roasted meat and vegetables—Giants love a good meal—I sat on the porch steps. I could hear the steady clang from my dad's forge and feel the gentle, precise swirl of my mother's wind Essence as she tidied the kitchen.
My father believed strength was for building things, like his enchanted blades. For protecting a quiet life.
But I knew better.
To protect this life, this peace he'd built for us, you couldn't just be a good blacksmith or a sharp bargainer.
You had to be a shield. A wall.
You had to be the Sentinel.
And to do that, my father's patient, defensive style of fighting was useless. I needed to be faster. Stronger. Unbeatable.
The problem was, my speed kept failing me in the yard. And I had no idea how to find a better teacher.
The coins in my pocket felt like a poor substitute for the power I truly craved.