I gave myself exactly ten minutes of "woe is me" time. Ten minutes to cry, curse the old gods, and fantasize about punching the High Priest in his trembling jaw. Once the ten minutes were up, I dragged myself off the bed.
I walked to the small, cracked mirror hanging on the back of my door. My eyes were red, rimmed with the salt of defeat, and my face was blotchy.
"You look like a wretch rejected by a gutter-witch," I told my reflection. I splashed some freezing water from the basin onto my face, slapping my cheeks until they stung. "Fix your face. Reeds don't pout. Reeds survive."
I practiced my grin. It was a little crooked, a little forced, but it would hold. The mask was back in place.
I couldn't stay in the house. The silence was suffocating, a physical weight. I knew when Mom and Dad came back, the air would be thick with that heavy, awkward disappointment the kind that tastes like ass in your mouth. I needed to hit something.
Not a person—I wasn't that far gone—but I needed to exert force. I needed to sweat until this cold, empty rot in my gut burned away.
I grabbed my practice sword and walked out the main door.
Riverwood isn't big. It's the kind of mud-hole where if someone sneezes on the north side, the south side says bless you. So, naturally, avoiding people was impossible.
"Hey! Look! It's Adam!"
I didn't even have to look to know who it was. Gareth.
Gareth is the son of a town guard. He's a mountain of a boy—mostly soft dough, but big enough to block out the sun. We used to be on decent terms, mostly because he was terrified of my brother, Shawn. But Shawn wasn't here.
I kept walking, spinning the heavy oak sword in my hand. "Not today, Gareth. I've got work to do."
"That's Sir Infantry to you," Gareth boomed.
I stopped. I turned around slowly.
There he was, standing with two of his lackeys. And even from here, I could feel it. The change.
It wasn't just his posture. The air around him felt denser, heavier. His skin had a faint, unnatural sheen. He had been anointed. He had received the Heavy Infantry Blessing.
It wasn't a glamorous blessing but It was a combat role and compared to my nothing? It looked like godhood.
"Heavy Infantry?" I raised an eyebrow, keeping my voice flat. "Congrats, man. The gods favor the thick, I suppose."
"Good for me? Yeah, I'd say so." Gareth stepped forward, blocking my path. He puffed out his chest, the fabric of his tunic straining against a sudden, unnatural bulk. "But a Heavy Infantry needs practice targets. And look at that... you brought a stick."
One of his lackeys snickered.
I tightened my grip on the leather-wrapped handle until my knuckles turned white. "I'm going to the training grounds, Gareth. If you want to spar, ask the instructor. I'm not in the mood."
"Not in the mood?" Gareth mocked, taking another heavy step. He was close enough now that I could smell onions on his breath. "See, that's the problem with the Unblessed. You think you have a choice."
He reached out, his hand heavy and slow, aiming to shove my shoulder.
Don't engage, my brain screamed. He has the Blessing now. He's not just a fat boy anymore. Hit him, my gut screamed back. Hit him in the throat. Hit him in the nuts.
I didn't hit him. But I didn't let him touch me, either. I sidestepped—a fluid, practiced motion I'd done a thousand times in the mud behind the house. Gareth's hand hit empty air, and his momentum carried him forward, stumbling just a fraction.
"Whoa there, Sir Heavy," I said, my voice cold. "Careful. Gravity hits harder when you're carrying all that divine weight."
Gareth straightened up, his face flushing a deep, angry red.
And then I felt it. A tug in my chest. A supernatural irritation. It wasn't just anger; it was a compulsion. His Blessing was leaking out, a magical taunt designed to draw aggro, forcing enemies to focus on him. It pulled at my primitive brain, demanding I lash out.
I knew he wouldn't let me go. My mouth had already dug the grave, and the magic in the air was pushing me into it. So I decided to strike first.
Whack!
It was a perfect strike. It was the kind of hit that would have made Shawn nod in approval. I drove the sword right into the nerve cluster on his forearm.
But Gareth didn't drop. He didn't even flinch.
The sound wasn't the dull thud of wood on flesh. It sounded like I had struck a bag of wet sand wrapped in iron.
He just looked at his wrist, then back at me. A faint, greyish ripple shimmered over his skin—the Iron Skin aspect of his Blessing. The magic had hardened his flesh the moment intent turned to violence.
"Was that a mosquito?" Gareth sneered.
My confident smile dropped.
Right. This wasn't a fair fight. I was flesh and bone. He was reinforced by the divine. His Constitution wasn't human anymore.
I really was an insect in front of him.
His boot caught me in the guts.
The air left my lungs in a violent, wheezing rush. I folded.
What followed wasn't a fight. It was a dismantling. Gareth didn't need technique. He had the Blessing. Every stomp, every lazy kick carried the unnatural weight of his new class. I curled into a ball, shielding my head with my arms, gritting my teeth so hard I thought they'd shatter. I refused to scream. I refused to give him the sound of my pain.
I took it. I took every inch of it.
Eventually, the blows stopped.
"Boring," Gareth sighed, his voice heavy with disappointment. "This isn't sparring. It's like kicking a sack of wet grain."
He nudged my ribs with his toe, a casual check to see if I was still conscious. "You're too weak, Adam. It's not even funny. It's just... sad."
He scooped up a handful of road dust and dropped it over my face. It gritted in my eyes and coated my tongue.
"Let's go," he muttered to his lackeys. "I need a drink."
I lay there for a long time. The sun began to dip below the horizon, bleeding red across the sky and casting long, distorted shadows across the dirt road. My ribs screamed every time I inhaled—bruised, maybe cracked. My lip was split, copper tang filling my mouth.
But the physical pain was a distant second to the realization settling in my gut.
Skill. Technique. Hard work.
None of it mattered.
I could train for ten years. I could blister my hands, perfect my form, and become a master of the blade. And it would all be undone by some doughy idiot who knelt before an altar, touched a glowing relic, and was handed power.
The unfairness of it choked me.
Slowly, painfully, I rolled onto my stomach. I pushed myself up, my arms trembling like twigs. I spotted my wooden sword lying in the dust a few feet away. I crawled to it, my fingers curling around the leather grip.
"I'm not done," I whispered. My voice was a wreck, a jagged thing.
I couldn't go to the training grounds. Not like this. I couldn't bear the pitying looks of the instructors. So I turned toward the outskirts.
I limped toward the Old Oak.
It stood on a lonely hill, a gnarled, massive sentinel where Shawn and I used to train before he left. The bark was scarred with deep gouges from years of our abuse. It was the only thing in this town that didn't judge me.
I stood before the tree. My chest burned with every shallow breath. The sunset painted the wood in hues of dried blood.
"Iron Skin, huh?" I muttered, swaying on my feet. I gripped the waster with both hands. "Heavy Infantry? Screw that."
I swung at the tree.
Thwack.
The impact vibrated up my arm, rattling my bruised ribs. Pain shot through my shoulder, but I welcomed it. It was sharp. It was real.
"Screw the Order."
Thwack.
"Screw the Gods."
Thwack.
"Screw Gareth."
Thwack.
"Screw Gareth's mother."
Thwack.
I hit the tree again. And again. The form I had practiced so carefully dissolved. I wasn't fighting an opponent anymore; I was trying to murder the world. The wood of my sword began to fracture, splinters flying off with every desperate, hateful impact. My hands bled, mixing with the leather grip, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
Crack.
The sound was sharp, final. My faithful wooden sword, the one I'd held since I was twelve, finally gave up the ghost. The top half spun away, landing in the high grass, leaving me clutching a splintered, jagged stump of a handle.
I stared at it, chest heaving, blood dripping from my knuckles to mix with the dust. I wanted to scream, but my throat was too raw. I just stood there, swaying, defeated by a piece of wood.
"You're putting too much shoulder into it."
The voice was melodic. It didn't come from the road. It came from the shadows of the tree line to my right.
I spun around—too fast. My head swam, and I nearly tipped over, catching myself on the trunk of the Old Oak.
"Who's there?" I rasped.
A figure stepped out from the gloom.
He was tall, lean, and moved with a terrifying, predatory silence. He wore leather armor and a cloak. At his hip hung a sword, a real one, the scabbard scratched and worn.
But it was the face that made me freeze. High cheekbones, skin pale as milk, and eyes that seemed to glow faintly. And, pushing through his tangled, silver-blonde hair, the tips of pointed ears.
An elf.