The forest had been Grey's refuge for two days now. Ever since his defeat at Ethan's hands, he'd remained among the ancient trees, nursing his wounded pride far from the pitying eyes of the other orphans. The weathered training post in the small clearing bore the evidence of his frustration—splintered and gouged by countless strikes of his blade.
Two days of solitude. Two days of relentless practice. Two days of replaying the duel in his mind, searching for the moment when victory had slipped through his fingers.
"How?" Grey muttered through clenched teeth as he delivered another punishing blow to the post. "How did he beat me?"
The former cook—a man who had only trained for a year—had somehow outmaneuvered him with that accursed teleportation knife. The memory burned like acid in Grey's veins, fueling each strike with renewed fury.
By midafternoon of the second day, exhaustion finally claimed him. His muscles ached, his knuckles were raw and bleeding, and his stomach reminded him loudly that pride was a poor substitute for sustenance. Despite his reluctance to face the others, Grey gathered his belongings and began the trek back to Rivermoor.
As he approached the orphanage grounds, something felt different. The usual afternoon activities seemed subdued, with children gathered in small clusters, their voices hushed. Grey paused at the edge of the courtyard, watching as Lily comforted a tearful Grace while Anna distributed small handkerchiefs to the younger children.
Aiden noticed him first, the five-year-old's eyes widening as he tugged on Ling's sleeve and pointed. Conversation ceased as heads turned toward Grey, the silence heavy with something he couldn't quite identify.
"So," Grey said gruffly, stepping into the courtyard with feigned nonchalance, "what's going on here? Why does everyone look like someone just died?"
Lily approached him, her eyes rimmed with red, concern etched across her face. "Grey, where have you been? We were worried about you."
Grey turned his head down, avoiding her gaze. He clenched his jaw, unwilling to answer—not yet ready to explain the storm of frustration and shame that had kept him away.
Before he could mutter a response, Lily continued, her voice trembling slightly. "Did you know… Uncle Ethan already left Rivermoor this morning!"
The news hit Grey like a physical blow. "Left? What do you mean, left?"
Anna spoke softly, her tone measured but tinged with sadness. "Grandpa said that Uncle Ethan has learned everything he can here. There's nothing left for him to gain by staying—no challenge, no new lessons. If he wants to grow stronger, he needs to leave Rivermoor and face the outside world."
Grey's expression darkened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "He just... left? Just like that?"
"But he—" Grey broke off, confusion and anger warring on his face. "Why him? Why is he allowed to leave when the rest of us are trapped here?"
Grace sniffled, clutching a single wildflower—the last of a bouquet she had evidently given to Ethan. "Uncle promised he'd come back," she said with childish certainty. "He's going to make another big feast when he returns."
Grey's jaw tightened, his frustration finding a new focus. Without another word, he pushed past the gathered children and strode toward Garrick's quarters, ignoring Lily's call for him to wait.
The door to Garrick's study flew open under Grey's forceful push, slamming against the wall with a bang that perfectly matched his mood. Garrick looked up calmly from his desk where he had been studying a weathered map, his expression unsurprised, as if he'd been expecting this confrontation.
"Why is Ethan allowed to leave this place?" Grey demanded, his voice rising with each word. "Why am I not allowed to do the same?"
Garrick regarded him steadily, taking in the dirt-streaked face, the bleeding knuckles, the wild look in his eyes—clear signs of the two days spent alone in the forest. "You're still too young, Grey. There is still much you need to learn here before you're ready to face the outside world."
Grey's frustration boiled over, his voice cracking with emotion. "I'm strong too! I can do it too!"
Garrick rose slowly from his chair, moving with the deliberate grace of a hunter who had witnessed countless battles. He approached Grey, placing a calloused hand on the boy's shoulder. "I know you're strong, Grey. But strength alone isn't enough. You need more maturity and experience." His eyes, keen and knowing, held Grey's gaze. "Trust me, your time will come."
Grey jerked away from the touch, his body trembling with barely contained rage. After two days of solitary training, after pushing himself to the limit to overcome his defeat, the news of Ethan's departure felt like a slap in the face—proof that no matter how hard he worked, others would always be chosen before him.
"I won't stay here forever," Grey growled, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword. "You can't keep me prisoner."
A shadow fell across the doorway as Ling stepped into the room, arms crossed over his chest. He'd followed Grey, anticipating the confrontation. "You'll have to go through me first," he said firmly, his voice carrying the quiet authority that had made him the unofficial leader among the older children.
Grey's eyes narrowed as he assessed Ling—the boy who had always been one step ahead of him, whose combat skills were matched only by his strategic mind. Same age as Grey, Ling had been Garrick's first student, and it showed in his mastery of both weapons and tactics.
"Fine, if that's what you want," Grey spat, drawing his sword with a metallic hiss.
Garrick made no move to intervene. He simply stepped back, giving the boys space, his weathered face betraying nothing of his thoughts. This was a challenge that had been brewing between them for months, and perhaps today—with emotions running high after Ethan's departure—was the day for its resolution.
The fight spilled out into the courtyard, where children gathered to watch from a safe distance. Grey struck first, channeling all his frustration and sense of betrayal into a powerful overhead swing that would have cleaved through lesser opponents. But Ling was no ordinary fighter—he sidestepped with precision, letting Grey's momentum carry him forward.
"Too obvious," Ling commented, delivering a sharp jab to Grey's ribs as he passed.
Grey recovered quickly, launching into a series of attacks that showcased his raw power. His blade hummed with lethal intent, each stroke precise and forceful. Yet Ling countered every move with ease, using Grey's momentum against him, redirecting attacks rather than meeting them head-on.
"You always fight with anger," Ling observed, ducking under a horizontal slash. "That's why you lose to Uncle Ethan."
The words only fueled Grey's rage. He pressed his attack with renewed vigor, his blade a silver blur as he forced Ling to retreat several steps. For a moment, victory seemed possible—until Ling dropped into a crouch and swept Grey's legs from beneath him with a move so fast it was almost invisible.
Grey hit the ground hard but rolled immediately to his feet, dirt and sweat mingling on his brow. His breath came in harsh gasps as he charged again, sword held high.
Ling sidestepped once more, his own blade seemingly an extension of his arm as he parried Grey's attack and countered with a strike that sent Grey's weapon skittering across the packed earth of the courtyard.
Before Grey could retrieve it, Ling was there, the tip of his sword resting lightly against Grey's throat. "It's over," he said quietly.
Grey's hands clenched into fists, his whole body tensed as if to continue the fight unarmed—but the cold metal against his skin was a reminder of the reality he faced. With a growl of frustration, he dropped to his knees, driving his fist into the ground with such force that dust billowed around his hand.
"Geez, why!" he shouted, the words torn from someplace deep within him.
Ling lowered his weapon, sheathing it with a smooth motion that spoke of years of practice. But when he spoke, his voice was merciless in its honesty. "You know why you always lose to me? Because you're dumb! All you know is how to attack and block your opponent's attacks, but you never think about strategy or your opponent's weaknesses."
He circled Grey slowly, his words measured and precise. "You're way too predictable. When you fought Uncle Ethan, I already knew who would win, even though Uncle Ethan just started learning to fight a year ago." Ling's gaze hardened, his next words calculated to cut deep. "Heh, someone like you will never be able to beat me."
Lily and Anna, watching from afar, shivered at Ling's cold assessment. "Scary!" Anna whispered, clutching Lily's sleeve. Both girls were frightened by this side of Ling—a side completely devoid of compassion, the tactical mind that had earned him Garrick's respect and the other children's deference.
Grey remained on the ground, one knee drawn up to his chest, his head bowed to hide the mixture of pain and humiliation etched across his features. The defeat at Ling's hands had driven home what two days of solitary training couldn't—that raw strength and determination weren't enough. That there were depths to combat he had yet to plumb.
As Ling walked away, leaving Grey to his defeat, the gathered children dispersed quietly, returning to their interrupted chores. Grey remained kneeling in the dirt, shoulders hunched under the weight of back-to-back failures—first to Ethan, now to Ling.
Only little Grace lingered, watching Grey with wide, sympathetic eyes. After a moment's hesitation, she approached him, extending the single wildflower she had kept from her farewell bouquet to Ethan.
"Brother Grey," she said softly, "Uncle Ethan told me that losing just means you have more to learn. He lost lots of times before he beat you."
Grey raised his head, his expression a storm of emotions—anger, shame, determination. But something in Grace's innocent offer reached past his defenses. After a moment's hesitation, he accepted the bloom, its delicate petals incongruous against his calloused hand.
"He left to get stronger," Grey said, his voice rough but controlled as he rose to his feet. "And someday, I'll be strong enough to leave too."
Grace's face brightened slightly. "Will you come back and make feasts like Uncle Ethan promised?"
The unexpected question caught Grey off guard. For a moment, his perpetual scowl softened into something almost like surprise. "I... I'm not going anywhere yet," he muttered, the words both admission and promise.
As Grey retrieved his fallen sword and walked away, Garrick watched from the porch, his weathered face thoughtful. The old hunter understood what Grey could not yet see—that today's failure contained the seeds of tomorrow's strength, if only the boy would learn to nurture them properly.
In Ethan's absence, Rivermoor felt changed—as if something vital had been removed from its daily rhythm. Yet life would continue, meals would be prepared, training would resume, and children like Grey would continue to grow and learn, their futures shaped not just by those who remained, but by those who had passed through their lives, however briefly.
And somewhere beyond Greenhaven Forest, Ethan was taking his first steps into the wider world, carrying with him not just his weapons and supplies, but the strength he had gained at Rivermoor and the memories of those he had left behind.