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Chapter 3 – The First Step
The fire was down to warm, quiet coals when I opened my eyes.
Kael was snoring like a dying cat on the floor, blanket twisted around his legs. Noah had somehow migrated to the far corner of the bed and was curled up using my pillow and my blanket, face buried like a burrito trying to hide from the world.
I sat up slowly, blinking at the soft morning light coming through the window. My arms felt a little sore from yesterday — from dancing and running and laughing way too much — but I didn't mind.
Yesterday was my birthday.
And today?
Today, I'd be holding a sword.
I got dressed quietly — just a soft shirt, loose brown pants, my boots. Nothing fancy. The belt didn't sit straight, but I didn't fix it. My fingers felt a little shaky. Not scared, just… full of something I couldn't name.
I stepped into the hallway. The house was still asleep. No kettle on. No footsteps. Not even Mom's soft humming. Just sunlight creeping over the wood floors and the smell of yesterday's food still faint in the air.
I opened the front door slowly and stepped outside.
The air was cool and clean. Mist still clung to the grass. The sky hadn't fully decided on a color yet — just silver fading into blue.
And there he was.
Dad stood near the training post behind the shed. That old wooden pole I'd seen a thousand times but never touched. It looked different today. Like something real.
He stood still, arms crossed, watching the treetops. His hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands falling in his face. He wore a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled, and dark trousers tucked into boots. Nothing dramatic. Just simple, calm, steady.
When he heard the door close behind me, he turned.
He smiled when he saw me.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
"You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep."
He nodded like he expected that.
"You nervous?"
I thought about lying. Then shook my head.
"A little."
"Good," he said. "Means you care."
I walked across the grass toward him. The ground was soft under my boots.
He placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a small squeeze.
"You don't have to be perfect. Just honest."
I nodded. Then remembered. "Yes. I mean—yes, I'm ready."
He smiled. "Better."
Then he pointed to a patch of ground in front of the post.
"Alright. Let's begin. Come stand here."
I did.
"Feet apart," he said, stepping beside me. "Arms loose. Relax."
I adjusted.
"Back foot turned a little more in. Bend your knees. Breathe."
I tried to do all of it at once. My body was already confused.
He circled me slowly, nudging one heel in with his foot, tapping my back with a couple fingers to straighten me out.
"Don't brace," he said. "Root."
"What's the difference?"
He crouched and drew a short line in the dirt with his finger.
"Bracing is expecting to fall. Rooting is preparing to stand."
I didn't fully get it. But I held the stance anyway.
He said nothing for a while. Just watched.
The silence stretched.
My knees started to shake. My arms twitched. My breathing got weird.
But I didn't move.
He finally stepped forward and looked me over.
"Not bad," he said. "You're locking your legs too much. Let them hold you, not fight you."
I nodded again, and stayed where I was. Even as my body started yelling.
He stood beside me quietly.
It was the quietest training I'd ever imagined.
No yelling. No dramatic sword moves. Just standing. Breathing. Feeling like I was trying to learn how to be a tree.
And somehow, that felt harder than anything else I'd done.
When he finally said, "That's enough," I almost collapsed.
I rolled my shoulders, legs wobbling, and watched him walk over to the shed. He came back with something behind his back.
"You ready?" he asked.
I nodded too fast.
He pulled it forward.
A wooden sword.
Worn smooth, old but sturdy. No decoration. Just a training blade. It looked plain — but serious.
He held it out to me sideways.
I reached for it, but he didn't let go right away.
"Take it like it matters," he said.
So I did.
The second it hit my hands, I felt it.
The weight.
Not heavy — just real.
He stepped in, adjusting my grip with his fingers.
"Too tight," he murmured. "You're not strangling it. Grip it like you want it to stay, not like you're afraid it'll run off."
He stepped back. "Okay. Let's try a simple cut. Lift it above your head. Straight down. Nothing fancy."
I raised the sword.
It wobbled in the air.
My arms tensed without asking permission.
I let it fall through the motion.
"Again," he said.
So I did. Again. Again. Again.
"Breathe," he reminded me.
"I am."
"No — not like that. Don't puff. Just let it out with the strike."
He stepped beside me and showed me — slow, smooth, one clean motion. Then nodded at me again.
I kept swinging. My shoulders burned. My hands slipped. I messed up.
But he never snapped. Never barked.
He just stood nearby. Watching. Correcting only when it mattered.
"Don't swing like you're trying to hit the ground," he said. "Swing like you're trying to understand it."
It made no sense, but I kept going.
Eventually, he raised a hand. "Pause."
I stopped.
I was sweating, shaking. My chest rose and fell.
And then—
Something changed.
It was small. Tiny.
A flicker.
Right in the center of my chest.
Not pain. Not heat. Just a pulse — like something nudged me from the inside, and then backed away.
My breath caught. Just for a second.
And then it was gone.
I blinked. Looked down at the sword in my hand.
Looked at him.
He hadn't noticed.
Whatever that was… it wasn't supposed to happen. My mana wasn't awakened. It was too early. Too soon.
I said nothing.
He looked over again. "Still breathing?"
"Barely."
He smiled. "Alright. Two more. Then we rest."
I nodded.
And swung.
Once. Twice.
Then I dropped to the grass like I'd been hit by a horse.
"Dead?" he asked, crouching beside me.
"Very."
He handed me a water flask. "Drink, oh mighty warrior."
I drank like I hadn't seen water in years.
He sat beside me with a quiet groan. "Ugh. My back. I'm too old for crouching."
"You're not that old."
"Tell that to my knees."
I flopped on my back. "My arms are melting."
"Good. That means they worked."
"I can't feel my fingers."
He nodded sagely. "Then your fingers have transcended."
I rolled my eyes. "You're weird."
"Thank you."
We sat like that for a while. Not talking. Just letting the wind move around us.
Finally, he said, "You didn't quit."
"I wanted to."
"Everyone wants to," he said. "Doing it anyway… that's the good part."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
After a while, I asked, "When do I get to swing at something?"
He raised an eyebrow. "When your feet stop trying to be in charge."
"What?"
"You'll get it," he said, getting up. "Come on. Let's eat before your arms fall off completely."
He offered me a hand.
I took it.
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