The fjord was restless that morning, its waters rippling under a brisk wind that carried the chill of distant storms. Seabirds wheeled overhead, their cries sharp against the heavy quiet of the village. Smoke curled sluggishly from the thatched roofs, and the rhythmic sound of an axe striking wood echoed faintly from the far side of the shore.
The boy stood alone at the edge of the fjord, his wooden sword resting lightly in his hand. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the water met the sky in a seamless expanse of gray. The world felt larger today—too large—and the weight of his father's lessons and Matteo's promises pressed down on him.
He adjusted his grip on the sword, his fingers tightening around the smooth wood. His father's words echoed in his mind: Anticipate. Adjust. Commit.
The boy planted his feet, raising the sword in a careful stance. He swung once, then twice, the air parting with each deliberate motion. He could almost hear his father's voice correcting his posture, see the practiced movements that had seemed so effortless in the clearing.
But this morning, the rhythm felt off. The strikes came too slow, the movements too heavy. Frustration welled in his chest as he swung again, harder this time, and stumbled when his foot caught on a loose rock. The sword slipped from his grip, clattering to the ground.
The sound was sharper than it should have been, echoing in the stillness. He crouched to pick it up, brushing dirt from the blade. The moment felt heavier than it should—like a failure, even though no one had seen it. His grip tightened on the hilt, and he swung again, this time without care, his frustration boiling over. The sword cut through the air wildly, the motion unbalanced, uncontrolled.
"Still working on it, huh?"
The boy spun, startled, to see his sister standing a few paces behind him. She had her hands on her hips, her golden hair tousled by the wind. A faint smirk tugged at her lips as she tilted her head, her gaze flicking to the discarded sword.
"You're supposed to hold onto it, you know," she teased, her voice lilting.
The boy frowned, brushing dirt from his hands. "What do you want?"
"Nothing," she said with a shrug, plopping onto a nearby rock. "You just looked funny. Like you're trying to fight the wind."
He ignored her, picking up the sword and turning back toward the water. His sister stayed quiet for a moment, watching him. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its teasing edge.
"Do you think Father was like this when he started? Do you think he ever dropped his sword?"
The boy hesitated. He thought of their father's precise movements, the whispered stories of his legendary battles. It was hard to imagine him as anything less than perfect. "Maybe," he said finally, though the words didn't sound convincing. "But I bet he got better faster."
His sister laughed, light and bright. "Probably. He is Father, after all."
The boy tried to focus, raising the sword and swinging again, but the weight of her question lingered. He couldn't imagine his father stumbling over a rock or struggling with balance. The stories didn't leave room for mistakes.
"Come on," his sister said suddenly, hopping down from her perch. "Mama's making stew. I'm starving."
"You're always starving," the boy muttered, but he let her tug him away from the shore.
The walk back to the cottage was quiet, the sound of their footsteps muffled by the soft earth. The boy's thoughts drifted as they passed familiar landmarks—the jagged pine tree near the bend in the path, the cluster of rocks that marked the boundary of their garden. Each one felt like a thread connecting him to the life he knew, but today the threads felt fragile, as though they could snap at any moment.
The smell of simmering stew greeted them as they stepped through the door, rich and savory. Their mother stood near the hearth, stirring the pot with one hand while the other held a bundle of herbs. She glanced up, her sharp eyes softening at the sight of them.
"Back already?" she asked, her tone light. "I thought you'd be off chasing dragons."
"Dragons don't chase themselves," his sister replied cheerfully, darting past her to snag a piece of bread from the table.
The boy lingered near the door, his sword still in hand. His mother's gaze flicked to him, her expression unreadable. "You've been practicing," she said quietly. "How did it go?"
"Fine," he said, though his voice lacked conviction.
Her hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their work. "You'll get there," she said simply, her voice steady.
The boy sat at the table, picking at the bread his sister had left behind. The warmth of the hearth seeped into his skin, but it did little to soothe the restlessness coiling in his chest. He watched his mother work, her movements fluid and efficient. She hummed softly under her breath, a melody he recognized but couldn't name.
"Can I practice too?" his sister asked suddenly, breaking the silence.
The boy snorted. "With what? Your flowers?"
His sister stuck her tongue out at him but turned to their mother with a hopeful look. "Can I?"
Their mother smiled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Perhaps when you're older," she said. "For now, you have other things to learn."
The boy watched the exchange, a faint pang of guilt stirring in his chest. He couldn't explain it, but he felt protective of her in a way he hadn't noticed before. The idea of her holding a sword felt wrong, like something precious being chipped away.
Later that afternoon, the boy found himself in the clearing behind their home, his wooden sword resting across his lap as he sat cross-legged in the grass. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced with the wind. His father's lessons from the day before played over in his mind, each strike and parry etched into his memory.
He picked up the sword, turning it over in his hands. The weight felt heavier today, the imperfections in the wood more pronounced. He closed his eyes, trying to summon the same focus he had felt during their training. But instead of clarity, his thoughts spiraled, tangling with doubt.
"You're thinking too much," came a familiar voice.
The boy's eyes snapped open to see his father standing a few paces away, his broad frame outlined against the fading light. His sword hung at his side, the worn leather sheath a stark contrast to the polished steel it held.
"How long have you been standing there?" the boy asked, his cheeks flushing.
"Long enough," his father said with a faint smile. He stepped closer, boots crunching softly against the grass. "What's troubling you?"
The boy hesitated, the question catching him off guard. "I just… I don't think I'm getting better," he admitted, his voice low. "Not fast enough."
His father crouched beside him, his gaze steady. "Better at what?" he asked. "Swinging a sword? Or understanding what it means to use one?"
The boy frowned. "Both."
His father nodded, as though the answer didn't surprise him. "Skill takes time," he said. "But understanding—that's harder. A sword isn't just a tool. It's a choice. Every swing, every strike, every block—it all means something. If you don't know why you're fighting, you'll never truly master it."
The boy looked down at the sword in his hands, his brow furrowing. "I don't know why yet," he admitted. "But I want to."
His father's expression softened, and he rested a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You will," he said quietly. "And when you do, you'll be ready."
They sat in silence for a moment, the wind rustling through the trees around them. The boy felt a flicker of something—determination, maybe, or hope—begin to take root.
"Come," his father said at last, rising to his feet. "Let's see what you've learned."