The Garden of ?
Chapter three:
Training and life 1:
The rain had passed and the village of Tern looked fresh again. The fields stretched out with tiny drops shining on them, and the sound of water still dripping from the roofs made everything calm. Inside the small house of the Caelith family, life was just as simple. Airen, who was known in the village for his strong body and skill with the sword, often woke up early to practice. Ferexia, with her gentle hands and calm voice, spent her mornings humming while preparing meals or teaching Leif small lessons about the world. And Leif, only five years old then, had begun to step into something bigger than himself without even fully realizing it.
Leif's training began quietly. His father Airen didn't hand him a sword right away. Instead, he taught him to breathe. "If your breath is not steady, nothing will be steady," he told him. So mornings started with simple breathing. Leif would sit on the wooden floor, his little legs crossed, his white hair sticking messily, and his bright blue eyes trying to stay serious even though his mind often drifted to thoughts of playing. The sound of rain, or the birds outside, sometimes distracted him, but Airen's steady voice always brought him back. "Focus, Lei. Your body listens to your breath." Slowly, day by day, Leif learned to sit still longer.
After breathing came movement. Airen showed him how to balance on his feet. No sword yet, just steps. Forward, backward, side to side. Leif's small feet would stumble at first, and sometimes he fell, laughing. But his father never scolded him harshly. He simply repeated, "Again." And so Leif stood again, wiping dirt off his knees, determination shining in his eyes even though he was only a child. Each small fall became a part of his rhythm.
Afternoons were different. That was when Ferexia took over. She never pushed him to be strong. Instead, she taught him to be gentle with strength. She explained Spiritflow, even though she knew Leif could not use it yet. She told him stories of how the spirits were everywhere—in the wind, in the water, even in the warmth of fire. She told him that people who learned to listen to spirits could grow stronger, not only in body but also in heart. Leif would listen with his chin resting on his hand, his blue eyes glowing with curiosity. "Mama, will I hear them too one day?" he would ask. And Ferexia always smiled, brushing his white hair back. "Yes, but only if your heart stays open."
The first months were slow. Training for a five-year-old was not about fighting but about learning patience. Sometimes Leif grew frustrated. He would clench his fists and shout, "Why can't I do it right?" His father would kneel down to his level and say calmly, "Because strength is built, not given. Even I was once like you." Those words lit a spark in Leif. The thought that his strong father had once stumbled too made him want to keep going.
One evening, when the rain was falling again, Leif stood by the window watching the droplets run down. He held a small wooden stick in his hand, pretending it was a sword. Ferexia sat by the fire sewing, and Airen sharpened his blade. The warmth of that moment stayed in Leif's memory—the sound of rain outside, the crackle of fire inside, and the safety of his family close by. That warmth became his reason to grow stronger. He wanted to protect it, even if he didn't have the words to say it yet.
By the middle of the first year, Leif's movements had grown sharper. He could balance longer, run faster, and even copy some of the stances Airen showed him. The wooden stick became part of his hand. When other children played in the village, Leif sometimes joined them, laughing and running like any child would. But often, he returned to practice alone, swinging the stick clumsily but with determination. His friends teased him sometimes, saying, "Why train so much? Come play!" But Leif always shook his head. "I want to be strong." They didn't understand, but he didn't mind.
Ferexia added her own touch to his growth. She made him read simple books, teaching him words and stories. At first, Leif sighed and wanted to go outside, but slowly he began to enjoy it. Reading about heroes and ancient battles lit a fire in his imagination. He began asking questions—about the world, about spirits, about the stars. Sometimes his questions were so many that Ferexia laughed, calling him her little scholar.
There were struggles too. Some nights, Leif cried quietly when his body ached from practice. His hands grew small blisters from gripping the wooden stick too tightly. Ferexia would apply ointment and whisper, "Even pain teaches, my son." Airen, though strict, always gave Leif a small pat on the head after practice. Those small gestures kept him going.
The passing of seasons marked his growth. When winter came, Leif trained in the cold, his breath visible in the air. His father made him hold his stance longer despite the chill, teaching him endurance. When spring arrived, he ran barefoot on soft grass, his laughter mixing with the sound of birds. Each season gave him something new, and without realizing, he had grown.
By the end of the first year, Leif was no longer just a small boy stumbling with a stick. He was still young, still only six, but there was a steadiness in his eyes that wasn't there before. Airen saw it when he watched his son train under the fading evening sun. Ferexia saw it when Leif read his books with focus instead of impatience. They didn't say it out loud, but both parents knew—this child was already walking his path.
And Leif himself, though small, felt it too. One evening, as he put his stick aside and looked at the starry sky, he whispered to himself, "I'll become strong." It wasn't loud. It wasn't for anyone else to hear. But it was a promise, born out of a year of sweat, tears, warmth, and love.