The Garden Of?
Chapter seven:
Little mischief 2:
Leif's life at fourteen felt heavier than before, but in a way that made him proud. His father no longer treated him like a child holding wooden sticks. Airen had started to test him with heavier blades, real steel, though dulled for safety. Each morning began before the sun had risen, the sky still carrying shades of pale purple and gray. While most of the village slept, Leif was already outside, barefoot on the damp soil, stretching his arms and breathing deeply the cool air of Eirenora's countryside. His father stood nearby, watching him like a hawk, green eyes steady and sharp. "Again," Airen would say, and Leif would repeat the drills — footwork, stances, slashes.
At first, Leif struggled to keep up. The sword weighed more than he expected, and his arms burned after only a few sets. Sometimes he would slip in the dirt, his blade dropping, his chest heaving for air. Airen didn't let him rest easily. "You think an enemy will wait for you to catch your breath?" he'd snap. Leif clenched his jaw, trying not to argue. He knew his father wasn't cruel — this was his way of preparing him, of pushing him beyond what he thought possible. And as much as it hurt, deep inside, Leif respected that.
By the time the sun rose fully, he was drenched in sweat. His palms ached from the hilt, his shoulders felt like they'd been set on fire, but his eyes burned with determination. He didn't want to give up. He remembered the words his father had once told him: "You're starting to understand." Those words still fueled him like nothing else.
Ferexia's training was different, softer but just as demanding in its own way. In the afternoons, after lunch, she would take him behind the house where a small clearing sat by the edge of the forest. She taught him to sit still, to breathe, to close his eyes and feel the flow of spirit within him. At first, he hated it. Sitting there doing "nothing" felt like torture compared to swinging swords. But slowly, he started to notice the changes. His senses sharpened. He could feel the way the wind brushed differently against each leaf. He could sense Rufius's tiny footsteps even before hearing them. He could sometimes predict where his father's strike was coming from before the blade moved.
"Spirit is patience, Leif," Ferexia told him gently one day, her pale fingers brushing through his hair while he struggled to concentrate. "Your father sharpens your body, but I sharpen your awareness. Together, you'll be unshakable."
That balance made his training harder but also richer. Leif sometimes thought of himself like the trees in their village — strong trunks that could weather storms, yet always aware of the wind, bending without breaking. He wanted to be like that.
Of course, not every day was perfect. Some days he argued with Airen when the training grew too intense. Some days he nearly fell asleep during Ferexia's spirit lessons. But as the weeks rolled into months, the improvement was clear. His swings were faster, his endurance longer, his focus steadier. Villagers who watched him practice whispered that he was beginning to look like a true warrior in the making. Leif tried not to let it get to his head, remembering his father's warning about overconfidence.
Even so, deep down, he carried a small spark of pride. He wasn't just a boy swinging sticks anymore.
While Leif fought through sweat and steel, Rufius fought his own battles in the village — battles of mischief and curiosity. At four years old, Rufius was a whirlwind. He had inherited Airen's black hair, though it was always messy, and his big blue eyes sparkled with the same playful mischief that Leif sometimes saw in Ferexia. Pale-skinned like both his parents, Rufius was often mistaken for a little doll when quiet — though he was rarely ever quiet.
Everyone in Tern village knew him by now. If there was a chicken running loose through the market, chances were Rufius had set it free. If someone's apples had mysteriously rolled across the street, Rufius's giggles could be heard nearby. The villagers weren't harsh with him, though. They adored him. Some said he was the heart of the village, a little spark that brought laughter even on dull days.
Leif, however, didn't always find it funny. He was usually the one chasing after his younger brother, apologizing on his behalf. "Sorry, he didn't mean it," he'd say as he tried to gather scattered vegetables Rufius had knocked over. Or, "Please don't be mad, I'll pay you back later," while tugging Rufius away before he caused more trouble.
One day, Rufius decided he wanted to see what would happen if he tied two goats together by their tails. The answer was chaos. The goats ran in circles, villagers shouted, and Rufius laughed so hard he fell on the ground clutching his stomach. Leif caught him by the arm, exasperated but trying not to smile. "Rufius! You can't just do that!" he scolded. Rufius only grinned up at him with innocent eyes. "But they ran so funny, brother! Didn't you see?"
Leif sighed, carrying him away while Rufius's laughter echoed behind them. As much as it drove him crazy, he couldn't stay mad for long. There was something about Rufius's joy that softened even the sternest hearts — even Leif's.
Sometimes, when Rufius was calm, he would cling to Leif's side, staring at him with those big eyes. "You're strong, Lei," he'd say. "One day I'll be strong too!" Those words melted away every frustration. Leif would ruffle his hair and reply, "Then you better not cause trouble, or you'll be too tired to train." Rufius would just laugh again, never taking the warning seriously.
The villagers often teased Leif, saying he had grown from a fighter into a babysitter. He didn't mind. Somewhere inside, he felt proud of being Rufius's protector. Training was important, but keeping Rufius safe — and sometimes out of trouble — felt just as much like his duty.
Life in the village seemed to dance between Leif's discipline and Rufius's chaos. Sometimes the two collided in funny ways. Leif would be training with his father, practicing a new sequence of strikes, when Rufius would run into the yard, pretending to be a monster. "Rawrrr! I'm a dragon, fight me, Lei!" he'd shout, waving a stick around. Airen tried to keep serious but often failed, shaking his head with a smile tugging at his lips.
Leif, torn between focus and laughter, would chase Rufius with the wooden sword. "Alright, dragon, prepare yourself!" Rufius would squeal, darting behind trees, tripping over grass, and finally collapsing in giggles when Leif caught him. Ferexia often watched from the porch, her eyes warm. "This house," she said once, "is never quiet, and I wouldn't want it any other way."
The brothers' bond grew stronger every day. At night, when training and chaos were done, Leif would sometimes sit by the window, Rufius curled up asleep beside him. The moonlight softened Rufius's features, making him look peaceful, almost angelic. Leif would stare at him and think about the future. He wanted to be strong not just for himself, but for Rufius too. Strong enough to protect him, strong enough to make sure no harm ever touched him.
Airen and Ferexia saw it too. They noticed how Leif balanced being both a growing warrior and a gentle brother. Airen, though strict, softened when he saw Leif carrying Rufius on his back after a long day. Ferexia often whispered to Airen, "He's growing into more than just a fighter. He's becoming someone who carries others with him."
It wasn't always easy, but it was real. Training sharpened Leif's body. Rufius's mischief softened his heart. Together, they shaped him into something whole.
And so, their days in the village went on — full of sweat, laughter, scolding, and love.