The Boy by the River
The sun rose over the forest, spilling pale gold across the trees. Kairo stretched, feeling the stiffness in his arms and shoulders.
Another morning. Another day of training.
He ran his fingers through his black hair and glanced toward the river. The same river he had known all his life, the same river that had witnessed every day of his seventeen years.
"You're up early," came a gravelly voice.
Kairo turned. The old man leaned against the doorway of their small wooden house, his cane tapping lightly against the floor. Despite his age, his eyes were sharp, almost piercing. They always seemed to look right through Kairo, as if he could see what Kairo himself didn't.
"Couldn't sleep," Kairo muttered, yawning.
The old man didn't answer, only nodded toward the clearing. "Then train. No excuses."
Kairo sighed and jogged over. The morning air smelled of damp earth and pine. It always smelled like home, yet it carried a strange stillness today. The forest was quiet, almost too quiet.
"Again," the old man said, tossing Kairo a wooden practice sword.
Kairo caught it with ease, his muscles already waking from the early morning chill. They had been doing this routine for as long as he could remember—years of repetitive training, step by step, strike by strike. But it wasn't just exercise. It was preparation. He didn't know for what. The old man never explained.
Kairo raised his sword and assumed a fighting stance.
"Focus on your movement, not the outcome," the old man instructed.
Kairo swung. The old man blocked effortlessly. He swung again, faster, and again—blocked. No matter how fast or strong Kairo moved, the old man's defense never wavered.
"You're thinking too much," the old man said calmly. "Stop thinking and move."
Kairo's brow furrowed. "I am moving!"
The old man's lips twitched in something close to a smile. "You're holding back. Your instincts are clouded by your mind."
Kairo glanced down at the ground, frustrated. He had asked before why he needed to train so hard. The answer was always the same: "So you can survive."
But survive what? He had never been told.
Minutes passed, the clash of wood echoing softly in the clearing. Kairo's arms burned, sweat running down his face, yet he pressed on. His movements were smoother now, faster, almost flowing with the rhythm the old man expected.
Finally, the old man stepped back. "Enough."
Kairo lowered his sword, chest heaving. "Did I… do better?"
The old man's eyes studied him. "You're improving. Slowly. But still too cautious."
"Too cautious?" Kairo echoed, annoyed. "I'm not afraid."
"You don't know fear yet," the old man replied. "But you will. And when it comes, you will need to be ready."
Kairo didn't respond. The words had a weight he couldn't shake. They weren't threats, exactly—but more like warnings whispered to someone who didn't yet understand the danger around him.
After training, they returned to the house. Kairo sat on the wooden steps, still gripping his sword loosely. The old man poured two cups of tea, setting one in front of him. Kairo sniffed the steaming liquid but didn't touch it.
"You always push me," Kairo said softly. "Why?"
The old man's gaze met his. "Because if I don't, someone else will. And they won't hesitate."
Kairo frowned. He didn't fully understand what he meant. He never did. But he nodded anyway.
The forest outside their small home was peaceful, yet Kairo felt a restlessness he couldn't explain. Sometimes, at night, he had strange dreams: red skies, fire, shadows moving in ways that didn't make sense. He never told the old man. The old man never asked.
He picked up a small stone and tossed it into the river. It skipped twice before sinking. His reflection stared back at him, broken and unsteady. Who was he? Why did he feel like there was more to him than this quiet life?
The old man's voice pulled him from his thoughts. "You're thinking too much."
Kairo straightened. "I can't help it."
"Good," the old man said, almost like a whisper. "You will need that."
Even after all these years, the old man spoke in riddles. Kairo had grown used to it. It was part of living here, in isolation, under the old man's watchful eyes. He had learned to follow orders, train tirelessly, and question nothing.
Yet a part of him couldn't ignore the nagging feeling—the one that said something was coming. Something big. Something that would change everything.
That evening, after training, Kairo walked to the river again. The water was silver under the setting sun, and he felt a strange calm settle over him. He knelt and ran his fingers through the cool water.
"Why do I feel like something's waiting for me?" he muttered.
The old man appeared silently behind him. "It is," he said.
Kairo jumped slightly. "What do you mean?"
The old man didn't answer. He simply stared at the horizon, the lines on his face deepening with age and knowledge. Kairo watched him, sensing that the old man knew far more than he would ever tell.
For a long time, they remained there in silence, listening to the gentle flow of the river. Kairo didn't understand what was coming, only that the forest, the river, and the old man had been his world—and that world felt fragile now, like it could shatter at any moment.
As the sky turned dark and stars began to appear, Kairo lay on his bed, staring at the wooden ceiling. His muscles ached from training, but more than that, his mind raced.
He had questions with no answers. Questions about who he was, why he was trained so rigorously, and why a strange unease had settled in his chest lately. He closed his eyes, but sleep didn't come easily. Instead, he saw flashes of red light, shadows moving across a fire-lit sky, and a mark—faint, glowing—on his arm.
A chill ran down his spine. He didn't know what it meant. He only knew one thing: he felt… different.
And somewhere deep inside, he sensed that his life—the quiet, ordered life he had always known—was about to change.
Tomorrow, the forest would feel the same. The river would flow the same. But he would not.
Because for the first time in his seventeen years, Kairo felt the weight of something he could not see, something that had always been there.
Waiting. Watching.
And he didn't know if he was ready for it.