Two Days Ago — Ironwood Village, Council Hall
The soft creak of old wood echoed through the modest chamber as four elders took their seats around the low, circular table.
Nana was the first to speak, her voice sounding steady despite the pressing matter at hand.
"Three sightings in four nights. That's no longer coincidence."
Old Chang grunted in agreement, his gnarled fingers drumming against the table.
"The beasts… they're testing our perimeter more frequently now, looking for weaknesses."
"And finding them," Old Min added grimly.
"We lost two night sentries along the western ridge. Barely had time to send the fire signals."
Silence settled over the room.
Arvi, known to all as the Old Blade of Van, leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table.
His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp, alert in the way only warriors who've lived through much can be.
"I've doubled the watches," Arvi said. "And I've asked Jules to begin live-weapon drills for the younglings. No more wooden blades, if it comes to us, they need to know what real weight feels like."
Nana looked over at him with an unreadable gaze.
"Do you believe it will come to us?"
"I believe the tides don't move without something driving them," Arvi replied. "And the mob raids… they're no longer scattered. Last week's attack hit three farmyards in one night. That's coordination."
Old Chang exhaled slowly. "You think someone's leading them?"
Arvi didn't answer immediately. He stared into the fire for a moment before saying, "I think Ironwood sits on something someone wants. And they're getting less subtle about taking it."
A shared look of unspoken understanding was passed through them, yet concern was the most obvious.
"Ugh! Those bastards!" Old Chang slammed his fist against the sturdy table, "They'd really do whatever they want to get the Helix Armor!"
"That's the sad reality my friend," Arvi said, "Even the walkers of the Light would take the route of the Dark if it is to justify their inherent evil."
"Indeed, you've spoken well, Arvi," Old Min echoed.
"How about Gyle? Any form of assistance provided?" Nana asked, her voice calm but firm.
"Those fools, with no respect for the ancient pact!" Old Chang replied, his anger simmering just below the surface. "After many messages sent, theirs remained stark and plain as day: We won't be getting any reinforcements from them."
"House Balsalt..." Arvi drawled the name, as though recalling forgotten pages of history.
"We can't afford to feel sorry for ourselves. It's the calling of a new age—a price we must pay, a pain we must embrace."
He paused, meeting the eyes of each elder. "But if Balsalt surrenders history, they will one day become history."
"Those who honor history," he said, rising to his feet, his voice steady and resolute, "will live forever."
He turned toward the door, his decision clear.
"Time is of the essence. Let's get to work."
***
Later that afternoon—Ironwood Village Training Yard
The clang of wood against wood echoed across the training yard as Jules spun, parried, and brought his wooden blade crashing down on his opponent's shoulder.
The younger boy stumbled back, groaning.
"Again," Jules said, offering him a hand up.
From a short distance away, Arvi stood with his arms folded, watching in silence.
The afternoon sun caught on the silver streaks in his hair, but his posture remained firm.
The boys reset.
Jules guided them through the form again, the Second Style of the Heron: Sweeping the Riverbend.
It wasn't pretty, but it was tighter than yesterday.
Arvi finally stepped forward.
"Break," Jules called out. The younger boys bowed before running off toward the well.
"You've gotten sharper," Arvi said.
Jules turned, chest still rising and falling with effort. "They're still too loose with their footwork."
"They're still alive to fix it," Arvi replied. "That's what matters."
He handed Jules a gourd. Jules drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Council's made their decision?" he asked.
Arvi nodded slowly. "We hold. No reinforcements are coming. No help from Gyle. Not even a whisper from Balsalt."
Jules clenched his jaw. "Then it's us. Again."
"It's always been us," Arvi said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
For a long moment, they stood side by side in silence, watching the village stretch beyond the training field— rooftops baked golden in the late sun, smoke curling peacefully from hearths, sounds of children laughing somewhere out of sight.
Then Arvi placed a hand on Jules' shoulder.
"You've grown," he said. "And you're closer now than you've ever been."
Jules looked at him, brow creased. "Closer to what?"
Arvi's gaze didn't waver. "To understanding what it means to carry a blade—not just swing one."
Jules shifted his weight, uncertain under the weight of his father's gaze.
"What is it?" he asked.
Arvi's hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment longer before he withdrew it.
"Storms don't always give warning," he said. "But I've lived long enough to feel the air shift before they come."
Jules frowned. "You think they'll move soon?"
"I think…" Arvi paused, his eyes scanning the treeline beyond the village walls. "If anything happens, and I'm not there, I need you to protect the little ones first. Not the village. Not the farmyards. The people."
Jules opened his mouth, but he was cut short before he could complete his words.
"Father—"
"I'm not saying something bad would happen," Arvi said, voice quiet but firm. "I'm just preparing you."
Jules took a long look at his father, then he nodded, slowly.
"I understand."
"No," Arvi said, giving him a faint, knowing smile. "But, you will."
He turned and started toward the armory, his figure casting a long shadow behind him as the sun slid lower.
And for a moment, Jules stood alone in the yard, the weight of that shadow settling across his shoulders.
Slowly, the evening transitioned into night, the village of Ironwood slept beneath a silvery sky, the moon full and watching.
A lone owl circled above the treetops, silent, then veered off without a sound with its path unknown.
Below, the sentries on the west watchtower changed shifts as usual.
No cries. No alarms. Only the distant rustle of trees and the occasional crack of cooling wood.
Inside his small home near the edge of the village, Arvi sat alone, sharpening a blade older than his son.
He paused only once, eyes flicking toward the open window, the forest beyond barely visible in the dark.
The breeze that drifted in was colder than it should've been for the time of year.
Arvi didn't move, he didn't speak.
He only listened, and after a long, still moment…
…he closed the window.