A year had passed since Joey had joined our little family, and the quiet of the woods had become a rhythm of its own. The sun rose and fell over our crooked little cabin, painting the forest in golds and greens, and life had settled into a cycle of work, training, and shared meals. It was nothing like the bustling chaos of Humreet he was used to; it was better. Safe. Ours.
What surprised me the most was how quickly Joey had grown into that rhythm. He had gone from a boy who eyed every corner as if danger might leap out, to someone who could laugh, eat, and even sleep without twitching awake every five minutes. That shift didn't come overnight. It was carved slowly, day by day, through meals shared, stories exchanged, and the steady thrum of belonging.
But if life had given him peace, training had given him purpose.
Joey had proven himself extraordinary. While it had taken me years to master even the basics of the River Blade, he picked up his own style with uncanny speed. His movements were sharp and deliberate, the kind that made you wonder if he even weighed anything at all. The way he moved, silent and precise, was mesmerizing. Shadows seemed to cling to him, bending around his form as he darted, struck, and vanished again, leaving only the faintest whisper in the air. He was a prodigy of stealth, a master of sudden strikes, and a living testament to every lesson Grandpa had taught him.
Meanwhile, I was still working on flowing like water, letting the blade move with me instead of against me. My River Blade training was far from complete, but the extra edge of having Joey as a sparring partner pushed me further than any practice alone ever could. Dummies didn't fight back. Joey did. And he did it with a grin.
"Careful!" I shouted, twisting just in time as he swooped in from behind, dagger aimed just above my shoulder. The glint of steel made me flinch.
"You move too slow!" he shot back, his voice carrying that smug little edge he knew would irritate me. "You're predictable!"
"Predictable? I'm practicing precision, thank you very much!" I parried his strike with a wide arc, letting the momentum flow around me like water against stone.
Grandpa, sitting on a fallen log nearby with his arms crossed, shook his head with a wry smile. "Alden, remember what I taught you. The River Blade isn't just about swinging; it's about reading the opponent, feeling the motion, letting it guide you."
I rolled my eyes, huffing. "I'm reading him, Grandpa! He's tiny, but I swear he's faster than me!"
Joey's dagger kissed the fabric of my sleeve as he pulled back, his grin widening. "Faster and smarter. Don't get cocky just because you've got water tricks!"
"Water tricks?" Grandpa chimed in, stroking his beard. "I like that. Makes you sound like some fancy elemental master."
I groaned, sweat trickling down my neck. "I'm serious here, Grandpa! One mistake, and he'll—"
"—cut you down," Joey finished with a smirk, twirling his dagger so quickly it became a blur.
Grandpa laughed, the sound echoing in the clearing. "Ah, the joy of teaching two stubborn boys. One can barely swing a sword; the other could kill you silently before you even blink. This is fun."
The truth was, training with Joey was nothing short of revolutionary for me. Where before I had floundered against imaginary opponents or clumsy dummies, now I had to anticipate, react, and adapt. His movements were unpredictable, his strikes invisible until they landed, or nearly landed. And even when he got the better of me, I found myself learning something new with every encounter.
Once, when I thought I'd cornered him against a tree, he simply vanished from sight, melting into the shadows of the underbrush. My heart had nearly leapt out of my chest when his dagger tapped the back of my neck.
"You call that reading me?" he whispered, smug as ever.
"You little—!" I had spun, swinging too wide, and nearly hit the tree instead.
"River Blade," Grandpa scolded, laughing, "not River Axe."
"Alright, shadow," I panted after one particularly grueling session, leaning on my sword, "admit it. You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
Joey smirked, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. "Maybe. But don't think this makes you less of a pain in the ass."
I laughed, lowering my sword. "Fair enough. I guess we'll call it even for today."
Grandpa shook his head, chuckling. "Even? You two are like fire and ice. Or water and… whatever Joey is. Smoke? Shadows? Mystery meat?"
Joey snorted, sheathing his dagger. "Mystery meat works. I'll take that."
Training wasn't limited to sparring. We spent hours in the forest, learning to move silently, to sense the wind, the shifting of leaves, and the tremor of the earth beneath our feet. Grandpa drilled us on awareness..., closing our eyes, listening for broken twigs, distinguishing animal footsteps from human ones. Joey excelled here, but to my surprise, he didn't hoard his skills.
"You're too loud when you step," he whispered once, crouched low in the brush. "Roll your heel softer. Imagine the ground is glass. If it breaks, you die."
"That's comforting," I muttered, shifting my weight carefully.
"And breathe through your nose," he added. "You sound like a horse when you pant like that."
I shot him a look. "You're enjoying this too much."
"Maybe," he said with a shrug, the faintest grin tugging his lips.
In turn, I shared my River Blade drills and footwork, showing him how to pivot his strikes, how to let momentum carry him into the next move instead of wasting energy. To my satisfaction, he listened, practiced, and even complimented me once.
"Not bad," he muttered after I demonstrated a flowing parry. "Still slow, though."
"Thanks," I said dryly.
Life wasn't all training. The shop demanded our attention, and the little cabin was never going to clean itself. Joey took to managing the shop with remarkable efficiency. He was quick, precise, and seemed to instinctively know what to prioritize.
"Joey, check the stock on the herbs," I said one morning. "We need to see which ones are selling the fastest. Grandpa left a note, but he doesn't exactly use charts."
Joey flipped through the ledger, his dark blue hair falling into his eyes. "Goldenroot is moving fast. Five-gold profit per bundle. And your moonvine is steady, but slow turnover. I'd recommend pushing more Goldenroot."
I whistled. "Already analyzing margins? Impressive. You're a natural."
"Natural thief," he shot back without shame, "natural with numbers too. You want to see what people are buying before they even know they're buying it."
I laughed. "That's terrifying and amazing at the same time."
Grandpa, sitting behind the counter and polishing a dagger, shook his head with a smile. "I swear, you two are more trouble than the beasts you hunt. But… it works. I'm impressed."
Sometimes we had customers come by from the nearest town—hunters, herb gatherers, even adventurers passing through. Joey handled them with a smoothness that startled me. He bartered without flinching, knew when to press and when to pull back, and somehow always walked away with a better deal.
"You haggled three extra silver out of that hunter," I whispered one day after a sale.
"He blinked twice when I named the price," Joey said, closing the ledger. "That meant he'd already decided he needed it. Why settle for less?"
I shook my head. "You're wasted on the woods. You should've been a merchant."
He grinned. "Or a very rich thief."
Evenings were my favorite. After long days of training and shopkeeping, we'd settle around the fire, stew simmering in the pot, the cabin filled with warmth. Joey, who had once slept on the streets with only scraps and shadows for company, now sat at our table, a warm meal in front of him, and a fire crackling nearby.
The contrast was stark, and I often caught him staring into the flames, quiet, as if trying to convince himself it wasn't a dream.
"Do you ever think about the streets?" I asked one night, passing him a plate of stew.
He nodded, eyes downcast. "Sometimes. I know I'll never forget it. The hunger. The cold. Always watching your back. But… this," he gestured around the cabin, "this is better. It's real. I feel… safe."
Grandpa reached over, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You are safe here, kid. And don't you forget it. You've got a family now. Both of these two may drive me mad, but… we've got you."
Joey's red eyes glistened in the firelight. He looked down at his bowl, then back at us. "Family… yeah. I think I like that."
Training sessions often ended in playful banter.
"You call that a strike?" Joey teased as I fumbled a River Blade combo. "I've seen puddles move more gracefully!"
"Shut up, rat!" I shot back, ducking a pretend dagger swing.
"Rat?" Joey grinned, showing he hadn't forgotten Grandpa's first words. "I'll take it. Better than being called clumsy water-boy!"
"Water-boy?" Grandpa laughed from the corner, shaking his head. "You two sound like idiots. But fine... keep it up. It builds character."
By the end of the day, muscles aching and clothes damp with sweat, we would collapse by the fire, laughing, joking, and recounting the day's victories and failures.
The world outside might have been cruel and chaotic, but inside our cabin, we had laughter, warmth, and the quiet certainty that we belonged together.
Even in the midst of grueling training, of beast hunts, of the endless balancing act of shopkeeping and sword practice, there was joy. There was camaraderie. There was family. And that, more than any skill or magic, was the strongest force of all.