The sun hung low over the training ring, bleeding orange into the dust. The air was thick with heat and silence. Elikem stood at the center, blade resting against his shoulder, posture relaxed, almost lazy. His eyes flicked between Tala and Kofi—two boys, lean and determined, standing opposite him like wolves sizing up a lion.
"You sure you want to do this?" Elikem asked, voice laced with mockery.
Tala didn't answer. He simply nodded once, and Kofi mirrored him. No bravado. No words. Just movement.
Bjorn leaned against a wooden post at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, watching. He said nothing. This was their trial.
The clash began.
Tala darted forward, his dagger slicing through the air in a feint. Elikem parried with ease, his blade ringing against Tala's. Kofi followed, sweeping low, but Elikem twisted and leapt over the strike, spinning with a grin.
"Too slow," he muttered.
The boys retreated, recalibrated, and came again—this time faster and tighter. Tala used Kofi's back as a springboard, flipping over Elikem's shoulder in a blur of motion. Kofi grabbed Tala's arm mid-air and spun him into a strike. When Elikem countered, Tala pulled Kofi out of the blade's path.
They moved like dancers—each step, each breath, each pivot synchronized. Not brute force. Not raw power. But rhythm. Precision. Trust.
Elikem's smirk faded.
He stopped underestimating them.
The fight grew serious.
Sweat glistened on their skin. The boys whispered between exchanges, crafting a strategy in motion. Tala would feint—sometimes continuing the motion into a real strike, sometimes pulling back to let Kofi deliver the blow. They alternated, confusing Elikem's timing and baiting his instincts.
The older boy grew frustrated. His footwork faltered. His breathing grew ragged.
But he was still dangerous.
Elikem's strikes came faster now, sharper. He began to adapt, reading their movements, countering their rhythm. He nearly caught Tala with a spinning elbow, and Kofi barely dodged a low sweep that would've shattered his knee.
Still, the boys pressed on.
They used each other like extensions of their own bodies. Tala would leap off Kofi's shoulders to gain height. Kofi would grab Tala mid-spin and redirect him into a new angle of attack. When Elikem lunged, Tala would yank Kofi out of the way, and Kofi would return the favor with a pull or a shove that kept them alive.
Bjorn's eyes narrowed. He saw it now—their growth. Not just in skill, but in spirit.
Then came the trap.
Tala dodged wide, leaving Kofi exposed. Elikem saw red. His anger surged, and he charged, blade raised high.
But before the steel could fall, Tala was behind him—silent as shadow, dagger pressed to Elikem's neck.
"It's our win, boy," Tala whispered. "Drop the sword."
Elikem froze. His gaze flicked to Bjorn, who stood watching, unmoving. Then, slowly, he let the blade fall.
"If I hadn't dropped my guard," Elikem muttered, "I would've won."
Tala didn't flinch. "That's a dead man's tale, if it were a battle."
Elikem's jaw clenched. His pride cracked. He turned and walked away, shoulders stiff with shame.
The boys didn't cheer. They picked up their daggers and returned to practice, sweat and silence their only celebration.
Bjorn followed Elikem, finding him seated beneath the old baobab tree, staring at the horizon.
"The strong aren't defined by how hard they hit," Bjorn said, voice low. "But by how many times they stand after falling."
Elikem didn't respond.
"Don't be ashamed of losing. Be ashamed of refusing to rise."
Elikem's fingers curled into fists. His heart throbbed with resentment—but beneath it, something else stirred. Respect. Jealousy. A quiet hunger.
He returned to the ring.
The boys looked up, wary. He didn't speak, just knelt and began to show them the basics of dagger stance—foot placement, wrist angles, and breathing.
"Your grip is too tight," he said to Tala. "You'll lose speed."
"Kofi, don't lean forward. You're giving away your center."
They trained until the stars blinked awake.
And when exhaustion claimed them, they collapsed side by side, blades still in hand.
The fire crackled nearby, casting flickering shadows across their sleeping forms. Bjorn sat alone, sharpening a blade, his eyes distant.
He remembered a time long ago—two boys, not unlike these, who had trained under his watch. One had died in battle. The other had become a legend.
He wondered which path these two would walk.
As dawn crept over the horizon, a shadow passed over the training ring. Bjorn stood at the edge, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
"They'll come sooner than I thought," he murmured.
Far beyond, smoke rose.
And with it, the scent of war.
A raven circled overhead, its cry sharp and cold.
Bjorn turned to the sleeping trio.
"Wake up soon," he whispered. "The world won't wait."