Since being accepted by the children, Ethan had become woven into the fabric of the Rivermoor orphanage community. Each dawn, he committed himself to rigorous training sessions, muscles burning as he pushed his body to new limits. The morning sun would barely crest the horizon when he began his daily ritual—running through Greenhaven Forest's winding paths, lungs heaving in the crisp morning air, while simultaneously gathering aromatic herbs and plump berries for the day's meals.
Ling and Lily, their lithe forms like shadows among the trees, followed him with watchful eyes. The forest, with its ancient canopy filtering dappled sunlight onto the moss-covered ground, harbored creatures that could tear a man apart in seconds. The two fourteen-year-olds moved with practiced stealth, their footfalls making barely a whisper against the leaf-strewn earth.
"Watch your step near the hollow logs," Ling would caution, his voice low. "Venom spiders nest there after rainfall."
Ethan marveled at their expertise. These teenagers—Ling with his calculating brown eyes and quick hands perfect for wielding his katana, and Lily with her quick, mischievous smile and formidable hand-to-hand combat skills—were among the most formidable trainees at Rivermoor. Where Ethan, despite being only twenty-two, stumbled and gasped for breath, they glided effortlessly, dispatching lurking threats with practiced efficiency. A flash of Ling's katana or Lily's precise strikes would fell monsters that Ethan could barely comprehend, let alone face alone.
"That's the third dire wolf this week," Lily noted one morning, dusting off her hands after a swift takedown. "They're venturing closer to our territories."
After returning from each run, sweat soaking his tunic and legs trembling from exertion, Ethan would ignite the large stone hearth in the kitchen. This space—fragrant with dried herbs hanging from rafters and well-worn wooden counters polished smooth by years of use—was where his true talent emerged. Cooking was more than a skill for Ethan; it was meditation, art, and language combined.
His telekinesis abilities hummed to life as he worked, an extension of his very being. Seven utensils danced in perfect harmony around him—knives dicing vegetables with precision, a wooden spoon stirring bubbling stew, spices measuring themselves into perfect proportions. The kitchen transformed into his orchestra, and he its conductor.
"Amazing!" Ling and Lily often found themselves transfixed at the doorway, watching what appeared to be a graceful, intricate dance. Ethan's face, usually furrowed with concentration during training, relaxed into serene focus as he prepared meals for over ten people simultaneously.
Ling leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "You're wasted as a fighter, Uncle. Your real magic is here."
The smell of freshly baked bread and savory stews would wind through Rivermoor, drawing sleepy-eyed children from their beds. When they arrived at the long wooden table, their drowsiness evaporated at the sight of steaming dishes arranged with care—golden rolls with butter melting into their centers, vegetable stews thick with forest mushrooms, eggs with sunset-orange yolks.
"Is that blackberry preserve?" a small boy named Aiden asked, his eyes wide as saucers. "My mother used to make that before—" His voice trailed off, but Ethan placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, understanding the unspoken loss they all shared.
The children ate with unbridled enthusiasm, their appreciation evident in every bite and exclamation. This genuine enjoyment of his food stirred memories of Emberlyn—how her eyes would crinkle at the corners when she tasted something particularly delicious, how she'd close her eyes to savor complex flavors. For a fleeting moment, Ethan felt her presence, almost as if she were sitting beside him, smiling her approval.
He watched the children, their faces animated with joy, and felt a warmth spread through his chest. The physical pain of training, the uncertainty of his place in this world—it all seemed worth it for moments like these. Creating happiness had become his anchor in a life adrift with grief.
Yet, across the room, Grey's sullen presence cast a shadow. The boy sat apart, his back rigid, eyes hard as flint. His untouched plate spoke volumes—rejection not just of the food, but of Ethan himself. Grey's resistance created an undercurrent of tension that rippled through the otherwise harmonious atmosphere. Despite his cold demeanor, Ethan had glimpsed the raw power Grey possessed when wielding his oversized sword during training, cutting through practice dummies with frightening ease.
In contrast, little Anna—who had once cowered at Ethan's approach—now sat nearby, her fingers clutching a spoon with determination. Her previous fear had given way to cautious acceptance, evidenced by the smudge of berry preserve on her chin.
"Your cooking is delicious, Ethan!" Garrick proclaimed, his booming voice filling the room. The old man's approval carried weight, and several children nodded in agreement.
Ethan smiled, heat rising to his cheeks. "Thank you!"
"Yumm, so good! We hope we can eat your food every day," a freckle-faced girl said between mouthfuls.
"Yeah, that's right!" another added, licking his spoon clean.
A chorus of voices joined in. "Please don't ever leave us, Uncle!" Their faces—some still round with childhood, others beginning to show the angles of adolescence—looked at him with a mixture of hope and the wariness that came from knowing adults often disappeared from their lives.
Ethan's heart clenched. He knew better than to make promises he couldn't guarantee. Instead, he offered what he could. "I'll do my best to cook delicious meals for all of you!" His smile was genuine, even as uncertainty about his future lingered in his mind.
***
After breakfast, Rivermoor buzzed with activity. Children scattered to their morning chores, their laughter echoing off the wooden walls. Ethan stood in a corner of the common room, leaning against a support beam worn smooth by countless hands. A sense of fulfillment washed over him as he observed their interactions—the casual kindness they showed one another, the resilience that shone through despite their difficult circumstances.
In the opposite corner, Grey sat alone by the window, one knee drawn up to his chest. Sunlight caught in his dark hair, revealing strands of premature gray that had earned him his name. Though young, he carried himself with the weight of someone far older. His gaze remained fixed on Greenhaven Forest beyond the glass, as if searching for something—or someone—who never appeared.
Ling and Lily approached Ethan, their training clothes already on. Ling's hair was cut short in a practical style, while Lily had tied a red band around her forehead to keep sweat from her eyes.
"Are you ready for training?" Ling asked, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. Despite his serious demeanor, he had a teacher's heart—patient when explaining techniques, firm when pushing for improvement.
Lily nodded beside him, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. Where Ling was methodical with his katana, Lily was instinctive—her brawling style fluid and unpredictable.
"Of course," Ethan replied, though his muscles still ached from yesterday's exertions. He gathered his equipment—simple leather bracers to protect his forearms and a water canteen—and followed them to the backyard.
The training ground spread before them, a cleared space of packed earth surrounded by wooden posts and training dummies. Some showed signs of recent repair, evidence of the intense training that occurred daily. The morning sun had not yet reached its peak, but already the air felt heavy with humidity, promising a sweltering afternoon.
Ethan knew he still had much to learn. He lacked the specialized combat experience of the orphans who had trained intensively since childhood. His body—more accustomed to kitchen work than combat—protested each new demand. Yet determination burned within him. If he wanted to learn high-level skills, to truly protect these children who had begun to matter so much to him, he needed to push beyond his physical constraints.
"Let's start with the basics," Ling said, positioning himself in front of Ethan. "Your stance is still too rigid. You need to be like water—flowing, adapting."
For the next hour, they practiced fundamental techniques. Ling demonstrated quick strikes and defensive maneuvers with his katana, his movements precise and economical. Lily focused on teaching Ethan how to read an opponent's body language to anticipate attacks, occasionally demonstrating a complex grapple or hold.
"Feel the intention before the movement," Lily explained, circling him slowly. "Most attackers telegraph their strikes before they even realize it."
Sweat soaked through Ethan's clothes as he struggled to implement their guidance. His movements remained clumsy compared to theirs, his reflexes a heartbeat too slow. Yet with each repetition, each correction, he improved incrementally.
From his perch on a bench at the edge of the training ground, Grey watched with narrowed eyes. His posture might seem casual to an observer, but Ethan noticed the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers occasionally twitched as if itching to grasp the hilt of his massive sword that leaned against the bench. Trust came hard to children who had been abandoned, and Grey wore his suspicion like armor.
By midday, Ethan's muscles screamed in protest. He bent forward, hands on his knees, breathing heavily.
"You're improving," Ling offered, passing him a canteen of water. "Your endurance is better than last week."
Lily nodded in agreement. "But your left side is still vulnerable. You favor your right too obviously."
Ethan straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. "I'll work on it," he promised, grateful for their honesty. The path to strength offered no shortcuts, only persistent effort and the humility to accept one's weaknesses.
As they headed back toward Rivermoor, Ethan's mind turned to dinner preparations. His cooking had become his offering, his way of contributing when his fighting skills remained inadequate. Each meal was an opportunity to provide nourishment and, perhaps, to repair broken trust.
He decided on a hearty meat stew for that evening—something substantial to replenish energy after a day of training. Greenhaven Forest had yielded wild onions, carrots, and potatoes during his morning run, and Garrick kept a modest stock of salted meats for special occasions.
That evening, as twilight painted the sky in lavender and gold, Ethan stood in the kitchen, surrounded by ingredients. His telekinesis abilities allowed him to work efficiently—ingredients moving with purpose, pots stirring themselves, spices blending precisely. Ling and Lily joined him, washing vegetables and sharing stories of their day.
"Did you see Aiden during practice today?" Lily asked, her eyes bright with pride. "He finally mastered that defensive roll I showed him last week."
Ling nodded, his fingers expertly dicing herbs. "And Anna is getting braver. She joined the younger children's training session without hiding behind Grandpa."
The kitchen filled with warmth and savory aromas as the stew simmered. When finally ready, Ethan arranged the food with care, adding sprigs of forest herbs as garnish. The children gathered at the table, their faces alight with anticipation.
The meal was a success, evidenced by the animated conversation and second helpings. Yet Ethan's eyes kept drifting to Grey, who sat apart as usual, his back to the wall, watching. The boy's isolation stood in stark contrast to the communal joy around him.
Ethan ladled a generous portion of stew into a bowl and walked over to Grey, conscious of the sudden hush that fell over the room. The boy's dark eyes met his, challenging and wary.
"If you're hungry, have this. I hope you like it," Ethan said softly, offering the bowl. The steam rose between them, carrying the rich scent of herbs and meat.
Grey's expression didn't change, but after a moment of tense silence, he accepted the bowl. No words passed between them, but it was a start—the slightest crack in a wall of mistrust.
Later that night, after the children had retired to their dormitories, Ethan remained in the kitchen. The room, now quiet except for the occasional creak of settling wood, bore evidence of the evening's meal—a few unwashed pots soaking in water, the lingering scent of herbs and smoke from the cooking fire.
He moved through the space, taking inventory of their supplies. The pantry shelves held fewer provisions than he would like—root vegetables, dried beans, preserved fruits. They would need to forage more extensively tomorrow, perhaps venture to areas of Greenhaven Forest with more abundant resources.
The soft sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. He turned to find Ling standing in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the dim hall lanterns. His usual confidence seemed muted in the shadows.
"Uncle?" he called, stepping into the kitchen. "What are you doing?"
Ethan shook his head. "It's nothing. I'm just checking what ingredients I have for tomorrow's meal." He closed the pantry door, turning to face him fully.
In the lamplight, he noticed dark circles under Ling's eyes—a reminder that despite his strength and skill with a katana, he was still young, carrying responsibilities beyond his years.
"Tomorrow is serious training," he said, concern evident in his voice. "You need to be prepared, not just physically but also mentally. The monsters in Greenhaven Forest are dangerous. If you don't rest enough, it could put us all in danger."
His words carried weight beyond his years—the wisdom of someone who had faced life's harshest realities too soon.
"Maybe I'll sleep early tonight," Ethan replied, trying to sound reassuring. Ling studied his face, seeming to search for something, then nodded and retreated from the kitchen.
The silence that followed felt different somehow. Ethan glanced toward the doorway, a prickling sensation at the back of his neck. For an instant, he thought he caught a glimpse of a shadow moving—perhaps Grey, listening to their conversation? But when he looked more carefully, the hallway stood empty.
That night, as Ethan lay in his small room adjacent to the kitchen, sleep came quickly but brought little rest. His dreams were a tapestry of memories and fears—Emberlyn's face, luminous and loving, dissolving into scenes of danger, of children running from shadowy monsters while he stood frozen, unable to help.
He woke before dawn, his heart racing, sheets damp with sweat. Rivermoor was still silent around him, but his mind already churned with thoughts of the day ahead.