The days that followed bled together in a haze of dirt, bruises, and sweat.
Zeke Graves had lived rough before — blistering rides across endless deserts, gunfights in alleyways, brawls in dusty saloons. But none of it compared to this. The training ground behind the village had become his personal hell. Every morning the rooster crowed, and every morning Lady Seraphine was there, standing tall in armor that gleamed like judgment under the rising suns, waiting with a practice sword in hand.
Zeke hated her smile the most. That thin, confident curve of her lips that told him she already knew he was going to break before breakfast.
His body ached from the first lesson, where she had beaten him down in front of half the village like he was a boy with a stick pretending to be a man. Pride alone had kept him standing the next day. Pride, and the deep, gnawing knowledge that she was right — a gun wasn't enough. Not here.
The first week was nothing but foundations. "Stance!" she barked. "Balance! Grip! Again!"
Over and over, Zeke stood with his feet planted wide, knees bent, blade raised. Sweat rolled down his back as Seraphine circled him like a wolf. When he shifted wrong, her wooden sword cracked across his shin. When his guard slipped, she smacked his knuckles until his hands were raw.
"Your gun does not punish you when you grow careless," she said, voice like steel scraping stone. "A sword does. The sword teaches. The sword never lies."
Zeke gritted his teeth, adjusting his hold. "Lady, my gun teaches just fine. You slip once, you're dead. That's as honest as it gets."
Seraphine stopped, lowering her blade, eyes narrowing. "Dead, yes. But what of those around you? A gun ends one life at a time. A sword defends all who stand behind it. When your bullets are gone, what will you hold to protect the people who trust you?"
Zeke scowled. He didn't answer. Because he had no answer.
---
The second week broke him harder. Stamina drills. Running the perimeter of the village in heavy boots while children laughed and chased him. Push-ups in the mud. Swinging the practice blade until his arms felt like they were tearing from their sockets.
Seraphine was merciless. She trained beside him, her own strikes flowing with precision, her breaths steady while Zeke gasped for air. At night he collapsed onto the straw cot in his borrowed hut, his whole body screaming in pain. He lay awake staring at the rafters, wondering if this was all pointless. Wondering if maybe he should just take his revolver, head into the wilderness, and find this "Dimensional Key" on his own.
But every time he closed his eyes, he saw the boy who had died in the goblin raid. The boy's eyes wide, small hands clutching at wounds Zeke couldn't stop. He remembered the hollow cries of mothers, the accusing stares. That guilt was heavier than any sword.
---
By the third week, the edge of his frustration had sharpened into something new. Determination.
He began to move smoother. His swings less like a drunk chopping firewood, more like a man learning rhythm. The wooden blade still felt awkward, but his muscles grew used to the strain. His shoulders thickened, his grip steadier. The villagers began to notice. Whispers spread — the outsider was still clumsy, yes, but he didn't fall as quickly anymore.
One evening, after hours of drills, Zeke collapsed into the dirt, shirt soaked through, chest heaving. Seraphine stood over him, not even winded. She extended a hand, but her eyes were sharp.
"You fight your own body as much as me," she said. "You curse the sword because it does not yield as easily as your revolver. But you do not yet understand what you hold."
Zeke spat mud from his lip. "Understand? Lady, it's a stick with an edge. Pointy end goes in the bad guy. What's there to understand?"
She crouched, blade across her knees, her gaze steady. "Everything."
Zeke frowned, propping himself up on one elbow.
"A sword is not a tool of killing, cowboy," Seraphine said quietly, almost reverently. "It is a promise. A promise to stand when others fall. A promise to bleed so others do not. It is not pulled from a holster in a flash of smoke. It is carried openly, always. Everyone who sees it knows — here stands someone who will fight, not for himself alone, but for all behind him. That is why knights are sworn to it. The blade is not freedom. It is duty."
Zeke stared at her. The words didn't land clean. Duty was a word he had buried years ago, under whiskey bottles and bodies in shallow graves. He lived by coin, by his own code. He never fought for anyone but himself.
He smirked, shaking his head. "Sounds like a lot of poetry for a lump of steel. Back home, lady, we didn't need oaths and symbols. A man pointed a gun, and the world knew what that meant."
Seraphine's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. "And how many lives did that gun save? How many children grew to see another dawn because of your revolver?"
The smirk died on his lips. He had no answer. Only memories — blood on sand, the sharp crack of his Colt echoing across desert canyons. He thought of wanted posters, of bounties, of faces he'd put in the ground. He thought of the boy again.
Seraphine rose, standing tall, her blade reflecting the orange glow of sunset. "You say you want to go home. Perhaps you will. But if you stay long enough in this world, you will learn. The sword is more than iron. It is who we are."
---
The next morning came hard. Zeke's body begged for rest, but Seraphine drove him to the fields again. They sparred until his arms trembled, until his shirt clung to him like a second skin. Again and again he fell, rolled, stood, and swung. His revolver never left its holster. He wasn't allowed to touch it.
By noon, villagers lined the fence, watching. Some cheered when Seraphine knocked him down. Others murmured when he managed a parry, or when his footing held firm against her charge.
He began to learn her rhythm. How her shoulders shifted before a strike. How her eyes narrowed an instant before she lunged. He blocked one, then two. Managed a counter that actually forced her back a step. The crowd gasped.
For the first time, Seraphine smiled. Not the smug, knowing smile of a teacher, but something warmer. Genuine.
"Better," she said, sweat glistening across her brow. "Still clumsy, still slow… but better."
Zeke leaned on his sword, panting, mud streaked across his face. "Better," he echoed, dryly. "Hell, lady, I'll take it."
---
That night, the village gathered for a small meal. Bread, broth, little else. Food was still scarce after the goblin raid, but spirits lifted when people saw the cowboy bleeding and sweating alongside them, not just hiding behind thunder and smoke. Children whispered that maybe the outsider wasn't a monster after all.
Zeke sat at the edge of the firelight, cigarette glowing faint in the dark. His muscles throbbed, but his mind was sharper than it had been in weeks.
Seraphine joined him, cloak wrapped tight, eyes on the stars. For a long time, neither spoke. The fire popped, villagers laughed quietly, a baby cried and was soothed.
Finally, Seraphine said, "There are whispers."
Zeke flicked ash from his cigarette. "There are always whispers. What kind?"
"About the goblins." Her tone dropped low, serious. "They say the raid was not their will. Goblins are violent, yes, but rarely organized. Never so many at once, never so coordinated. Someone, or something, guided them."
Zeke's brows furrowed. He leaned forward, cigarette hanging forgotten. "You mean… they had a leader?"
Her blue eyes glinted in the firelight. "More than that. They say shadows move in the Hollow Peaks. That the goblins are pawns on a greater board. If this is true, cowboy… what we faced was only the beginning."
The night air grew colder. The fire snapped, and for the first time in weeks, Zeke Graves felt a chill that no training could sweat out.