The ship groaned as it cut through the waves, its wooden belly alive with motion. Below deck, where the lanterns swayed and the scent of salt and sweat mingled, Tala and Kofi stood before Bjorn, their eyes fixed on the twin daggers in his hands.
"These," Bjorn said, his voice low and steady, "are not weapons for brute force. They are for those who move like whispers. For those who strike before the enemy even knows they're there."
He handed each boy a blade—curved, light, and cold to the touch. Tala turned it in his palm, feeling the balance. Kofi gripped his awkwardly, his fingers stiff, uncertain.
Bjorn crouched, demonstrating the grip. "Thumb here. Wrist loose. Blade angled. You don't fight the dagger. You dance with it."
The boys mimicked him, their movements clumsy and uncertain. Tala's blade wobbled. Kofi nearly dropped his. But they didn't complain. They watched. They listened. And they absorbed.
Bjorn began to move—his feet gliding across the creaking floorboards, his body flowing like water. "Coordination," he said. "It's not just hands. Its feet. Spine. Breathe. You must become a single rhythm."
The boys practiced. At first, they stumbled. Their footwork was chaotic, their strikes mistimed. They looked like children playing at war. But something began to shift. Tala's grip steadied. Kofi's stance widened. They began to mirror each other—not perfectly, but instinctively.
Then, without warning, they locked eyes.
A silent understanding passed between them. They took their stances. Daggers raised. Feet aligned. And they began to fight.
Not wildly. Not recklessly. But with a strange, unspoken harmony. Their footwork matched their hand movements. Their dodges were timed. Their strikes were measured. They moved like twin currents—flickering, unpredictable, but always in sync.
The warriors watching paused. Even Bjorn raised an eyebrow.
"They weren't taught that," someone whispered.
Bjorn stepped forward, nodding slowly. "Speed," he said. "That is your gift. Strength will come in time. But speed… speed is your weapon now."
He crouched before them, his eyes sharp. "You must learn to strike before the enemy breathes. To move before they think. That is how you survive."
The boys nodded, panting, sweat dripping from their brows. They didn't speak. They didn't need to.
The next morning, Bjorn stood on the deck and called out, "I need a challenger."
A murmur rippled through the crew.
"I need someone to test the twins. Someone fast. Someone proud."
A boy stepped forward.
He was lean, with sharp eyes and a braided ponytail that swung like a whip. His name was Elikem. Thirteen years old. Born in the port city of Anloga. Raised among warriors. He was a prodigy.
"I'll fight them," he said, his voice calm, almost bored. "Both of them."
Elikem was known across the fleet. He had defeated boys older than him and outpaced warriors twice his size. He moved like lightning and struck like thunder. He believed no one his age could touch him.
Bjorn nodded. "Tomorrow. Below deck."
Tala and Kofi exchanged glances. Their hearts raced. Their fingers twitched around the hilts of their daggers.
That night, they didn't sleep.
They trained.
They practiced footwork in the lantern-lit belly of the ship, tracing patterns in the dust with their toes. They sparred in silence, listening to each other's breath, predicting each other's moves. They studied Bjorn's lessons, repeating the stances until their muscles remembered them without thought.
Tala focused on feints—how to mislead the eye and how to draw a strike and slip beneath it. Kofi practiced counters—how to turn defense into offense and how to use momentum against the enemy.
They didn't speak much. But when they did, it was sharp and purposeful.
"He's taller," Tala said.
"Then we stay low," Kofi replied.
"He's fast."
"Then we become faster."
"He's proud."
"Then we surprise him."
They trained until their feet bled. Until their arms refused to lift. Until the ship rocked beneath them like a cradle of war.
At dawn, the crew gathered below deck.
Elikem stood in the center of the ring, his blade gleaming, his stance relaxed. He smirked as the twins approached.
"You're smaller than I thought," he said.
Tala didn't respond.
Kofi didn't blink.
Bjorn raised his hand.
The crew leaned in.
The ship creaked.
And just as Bjorn's hand began to fall—