The Knight's Path
Golden light spilled across the village of Mish, catching on thatched rooftops and turning them to amber crowns. Nestled like a precious secret within the verdant hills of the Kingdom of Rish, the village was a painting come to life—earthen homes scattered among emerald paddy fields, while crystalline rivers wove silver threads through the landscape, life-giving arteries for the humble folk who called this place home.
At the edge of the settlement, where wild grasses whispered against cultivated land, eight-year-old Zoh Kuroz's heart thundered against his ribs. His eyes, wide with reverence, tracked every movement of his father in their modest yard. Matt Kuroz, once a royal guard whose name had been spoken with respect in the king's court, now served as the village's protector. The afternoon sun glinted off his blade as it cut through the air with deadly precision, each movement a testament to years of discipline.
The sword sang, slicing invisible enemies as Matt danced through forms he'd practiced for decades. Sweat beaded on his brow, glistening like dew on morning grass. His face—weathered by sun and battle—remained serene, lost in the meditation of combat.
Zoh's fingers trembled slightly as they curled into fists at his sides. The moment he'd rehearsed countless times in his mind was finally here. Hidden beneath his sleeping mat lay a wooden sword he'd secretly carved, each splinter and cut on his small hands a badge of his determination.
Drawing a deep breath that filled his chest with courage, Zoh stepped forward. The cool grass caressed his bare feet, grounding him as he squared his shoulders.
"Dad," he called, his voice ringing clearer than the village bell. "Can you teach me how to wield a sword?"
Matt froze mid-strike, his blade hovering in the air as if time itself had paused. Slowly, he lowered his weapon and turned. His eyes—the same deep brown as Zoh's—met his son's gaze, searching.
"Son," he said, his voice gentle yet firm, the voice that had once commanded troops, "you're still too young. You must reach the age of eight first."
The words hit Zoh like a physical blow. His mouth fell open, disbelief washing over him like cold water. Had his father truly forgotten? Did he matter so little in the great warrior's mind?
"Eh? Dad, are you joking?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them, indignation painting each syllable. "I'm already eight years old!"
Surprise flashed across Matt's face, quickly replaced by a sheepish smile that softened the hard lines etched by years of vigilance. He rubbed the back of his neck—a gesture Zoh had seen a thousand times when his father was caught in a mistake.
"Oh, I apologize, Son," Matt said, genuine remorse warming his tone. "I forgot." Curiosity sparked in his eyes as he studied his child. "But why do you wish to learn the ways of the sword?"
This was the moment—Zoh could feel it in his bones. He stood straighter, chin lifted with a pride that seemed too large for his small frame.
"Because I aspire to become a knight!" The declaration rang out across their yard, startling a bird from a nearby tree. His small fists clenched tighter, knuckles white with conviction. "Though I may not be strong yet, I want to learn from you, Dad." He stepped forward, his eyes burning with a fire that belonged to men twice his age. "When I grow stronger, I will protect our village, our house, and both you and Mom!"
The silence that followed stretched between them like a bridge. Matt studied his son, searching for any flicker of childish whim. Instead, he found only unwavering determination—a mirror of his own youth when he'd stood before his father with the same request, the same fire. A warmth bloomed in his chest, spreading through his battle-worn body like a healing balm. His son was no longer just a child—he was becoming the man he would one day be.
"Very well," Matt conceded, sheathing his sword with a metallic whisper that sent shivers down Zoh's spine. "Begin by helping your mother clean the house, and I shall commence your training tomorrow."
Relief and joy collided within Zoh's small chest, threatening to explode like festival fireworks. It took every ounce of self-control not to leap into the air with triumph. Instead, he nodded solemnly, mimicking his father's composed demeanor even as his insides danced with celebration.
"Okay, Dad," he managed, before a mischievous spark lit his eyes. A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Don't worry, when you grow old, I'll fashion a cane for you, Dad."
Matt's laughter—deep and rich as fertile soil—broke the solemnity of the moment. He lunged forward playfully, large hands ruffling Zoh's unruly dark hair with an affection that made the boy's heart swell.
"You little rascal!" Matt exclaimed, the love in his voice as clear as the village spring. "Always finding ways to tease me. Hurry now!"
Zoh ducked away from his father's grasp, giggles bubbling from his throat as he raced toward their humble dwelling. His feet barely seemed to touch the ground—tomorrow, he would begin his journey toward knighthood, toward becoming someone worthy of the Kuroz name, someone who could stand guard over all he held dear.
Inside their home, warmth enveloped him like an embrace. Oil lamps cast dancing shadows on the walls, and the air was heavy with the aroma of herbs and spices. His mother, Nina, stood by the hearth, her graceful hands bringing order to chaos as she stirred a bubbling pot. Her ebony hair—the same shade as Zoh's—was pulled back in a practical braid, though rebellious strands had escaped to frame her face like an ornate picture.
"Mom," Zoh called out, barely containing the excitement that threatened to burst from his seams. "Allow me to assist you in cleaning the house."
Nina turned, surprise arching her delicate eyebrows. Her son, volunteering to clean? This was as rare as snow in summer. A knowing smile played on her lips as she wiped her slender hands on her apron.
"Has something wonderful occurred, my energetic son?" she asked, her voice flowing like the village stream—clear and melodious.
Zoh couldn't hold back any longer. The news erupted from him in a rush of breath and words.
"Dad will teach me how to use a sword because I'm finally big enough!" he exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes shining brighter than the stars appearing in the evening sky.
Nina's expression softened, a complex mixture of maternal pride and worry washing over her features. Where had the years gone? Yesterday, he had been a babe in her arms; today, he dreamed of swords and knights.
"Ah, my son is growing up," she said, her voice carrying a bittersweet note that sailed over the excited child's head. She gestured toward the broom leaning against the wall like a sentinel. "Go ahead and tidy up. It's almost time for us to eat."
Zoh attacked his chores with unprecedented enthusiasm. The broom became a weapon in his hands as he swept the earthen floor with the dedication of a knight preparing for battle. He wiped down the wooden table until he could see his reflection in its surface, arranged the sleeping mats with military precision, and even organized the cooking implements without being asked. All the while, his mind painted vivid pictures of himself wielding a magnificent sword, defending his village from dangers unknown, earning the respect and admiration of everyone around him.
I'll be the greatest knight the Kingdom of Rish has ever seen, he thought, his heart swelling with a determination that seemed almost too vast for his small chest. Everyone will know the name Zoh Kuroz!
As dusk draped the sky in a tapestry of orange and purple, Zoh ventured outside to call his father for dinner. Matt sat on a flat stone at the edge of their property, his sword laid across his knees like a sleeping child. His hands moved in a rhythm as old as warfare itself, polishing the blade until it gleamed. The setting sun cast its dying light upon the metal, transforming it into a river of molten gold.
"Dad," Zoh called, momentarily spellbound by the sight. "Dinner's ready."
Matt looked up, nodding in acknowledgment. He sheathed his sword with a fluid grace that Zoh hoped to one day possess and rose to his feet. Together, they walked back to the house, father and son, warrior and warrior-to-be, their shadows stretching long behind them like bridges to the past and future.
Inside, Nina had laid out a modest but hearty meal. The family gathered around the low table, kneeling on woven mats that had been in Nina's family for generations. After a brief prayer of gratitude to the gods for their provision, they began to eat. The stew was rich and flavorful, chunks of vegetables and rabbit meat swimming in a broth that tasted of home and care.
Nina's eyes, the color of fertile earth, studied her husband's face in the gentle lamplight. She recognized the contemplative gleam there—Matt was planning, strategizing, as he always did before undertaking something important.
"Dear," she began, her voice cutting through the comfortable silence. "Our son mentioned that you will teach him the ways of the sword tomorrow. Is that true?"
Matt met her gaze, understanding the unspoken concern woven through her question. Teaching a child swordplay was not without its risks. Bruises, cuts, and sometimes worse were part of the learning. Yet, he had also seen the determination blazing in his son's eyes—the same fire that had once burned in his own.
"Yes," he confirmed, his voice steady as the foundation of their home. "He has reached the right age for training." He reached across the table, his calloused hand enveloping Nina's slender one in a gesture that spoke of years of shared understanding. "Do not worry, I will take care of it."
Nina nodded, her trust in her husband absolute. If Matt deemed Zoh ready, then ready he was. Still, a mother's heart would always worry, would always see the babe in the boy, the vulnerability beneath the bravado.
That night, as Zoh lay on his sleeping mat, sleep danced just beyond his reach. His mind raced with images of sword fights and heroic deeds, too vivid to allow rest. He imagined himself standing tall, a knight's cloak billowing behind him, his sword raised high against threats both seen and unseen. The village children would look up to him with awe, the adults would nod with respect, and his parents—his parents would beam with a pride so bright it could rival the sun.
Tomorrow, he thought, a smile playing on his lips as sleep finally began to claim him, pulling him into dreams colored with valor and victory. Tomorrow, I begin my journey.
And in the quiet darkness of the Kuroz home, as a boy dreamed of becoming a knight, destiny itself seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.