The first light of dawn crept through the thick forest canopy, casting long, jagged shadows across the clearing. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Zaedric stood near the edge of the clearing, stretching his aching limbs, his body still sore from the days of running and restless sleep.
Deyvar Kryn stood a few paces away, rolling his shoulders as he unsheathed a short, well-worn blade. "We start simple," he said, tossing a wooden training sword toward Zaedric. "You're no warrior, not yet. But that will change."
Zaedric caught the training weapon awkwardly, his grip unsure. He had swung an axe before, split logs for winter fires, but a sword was something entirely different. It felt foreign in his hands.
Deyvar watched him, his sharp gaze unwavering. "You're gripping it too tightly. A blade isn't a club. Hold it firm, but loose enough to move freely."
Zaedric adjusted his hold, shifting his stance as Deyvar circled him. "Why bother teaching me this?" he asked. "You could've left us behind."
Deyvar smirked. "Could have. Didn't. The world's changed, Zaedric. If you want to live, you need to be able to fight for it."
Without warning, Deyvar lunged. Zaedric barely had time to react, raising his wooden sword in a clumsy attempt to block. The force of the strike sent a jolt up his arms, and he stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing.
"Too slow," Deyvar said, stepping back. "Again."
Zaedric took a deep breath, setting his feet more firmly. He wouldn't let himself be beaten so easily. Not after everything he had lost. He tightened his grip just enough land prepared for the next strike.
This time, he would be ready.
The morning stretched into the afternoon, and Zaedric's muscles burned from exertion. Deyvar was relentless, pushing him again and again, correcting his stance, his footwork, his grip. Every time Zaedric thought he had adjusted enough, Deyvar would exploit another weakness, striking with calculated precision.
"Again," Deyvar barked, knocking Zaedric's weapon aside with ease. "You hesitate. Stop thinking about every move and start feeling it."
Zaedric exhaled sharply, frustration mounting. His arms ached, sweat dripped from his brow, and each strike felt heavier than the last. His instincts screamed at him to stop, but the thought of Lyria alone, unprotected drove him forward. He had no choice but to endure.
He stepped in, feinting a strike to Deyvar's left, then quickly pivoted to the right, aiming for his opponent's ribs. It was an unpolished move, but for the first time, Deyvar had to step back.
A small smirk touched the older man's lips. "Better."
Zaedric barely had time to register the approval before Deyvar countered, twisting his blade and disarming him in a single swift motion. The wooden sword clattered to the ground. Zaedric cursed under his breath.
Deyvar crossed his arms, studying him. "You're learning, but you're still holding back."
Zaedric wiped his brow, breathing hard. "What do you want me to do? Swing wildly until I hit something?"
Deyvar shook his head. "No. I want you to commit. Every strike should have purpose. Every movement should be controlled, not wasted. Right now, you fight like a man who's afraid of what he might become."
Zaedric swallowed hard. He had never seen himself as a warrior. He had been a son, a brother, a man of simple means. But that life was gone, and hesitation would only get him and Lyria killed.
He bent down, gripping the training sword once more. This time, he didn't just prepare to block he prepared to strike.
Deyvar nodded in approval. "Again."
The training continued, pushing Zaedric to his limits. The forest grew darker as the sun dipped lower, the chirping of birds giving way to the distant howls of unseen beasts. By the time Deyvar finally called for a halt, Zaedric could barely lift his arms.
"Good," Deyvar said, sheathing his own blade. "Tomorrow, we go again. But tonight, you rest. Your body will break before it learns if you don't let it recover."
Zaedric wanted to argue, to push himself further, but he knew Deyvar was right. He trudged back toward the small cottage, muscles screaming in protest. As he stepped inside, Lyria stirred from where she lay, blinking sleepily.
"Did you win?" she murmured, her voice soft.
Zaedric chuckled, exhaustion lacing his words. "Not yet."
She gave him a small, drowsy smile. "You will."
Zaedric sank onto the floor beside her, her quiet faith in him warming him more than the fire ever could. He still had a long way to go. But for the first time since Varethia fell, he believed he could get there.