Victor stared at the gleaming sword in Thorian's hand, his heart hammering against his ribs. The air between them seemed to thicken, vibrating with the tension of unspoken words. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of it.
"Take it," Thorian said again, his tone unwavering.
Victor swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him like a storm cloud. The blade shimmered in Thorian's hand as though it had a life of its own, beckoning him. The edges of the sword caught the fading light, casting reflections across the stones beneath their feet. But Victor didn't move. He couldn't.
"I'm not ready," he whispered, almost to himself. "I don't know how to fight. I've never—"
"You don't need to know how," Thorian interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. "Not yet. But you will. And you will need to learn quickly. This world is not kind to those who hesitate."
Victor's mind raced. The words, you will need to learn quickly, echoed in his ears. Could he really do this? Could he become someone he didn't recognize? The boy who had been born in a small, sleepy village—who had no real ambitions beyond his next meal and his next breath—now found himself standing on the edge of something far bigger, something ancient and terrifying.
He took a slow step forward, his feet feeling heavy as if the stones beneath him had become thick with tar. Thorian remained still, watching, waiting.
Victor reached out tentatively and took hold of the sword's hilt. It was surprisingly warm, almost alive, and he flinched at the sensation. The blade seemed to hum in his grip, as if it recognized him, as if it was connected to something deep inside him that he couldn't yet understand. A strange, electric energy surged up his arm, but he gritted his teeth and held tight. There was no going back now.
As soon as his fingers closed around the hilt, Thorian nodded. "Good. Now, step into the stance I show you. And don't hesitate."
Victor did as he was told, though every part of him screamed in protest. He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, the sword held at his side like he'd seen in movies and stories—but it didn't feel like a story. It felt real. Too real.
Thorian circled around him, his eyes sharp as he assessed Victor's posture. He raised a hand. "No, lower your stance. You're too stiff. The sword is an extension of you. Feel it. Let it become a part of you."
Victor's breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of the sword almost unbearable. The air around him was thick with tension, and the world seemed to shrink into a narrow focus—the man, the blade, the weight of it all.
"You are not just holding a weapon," Thorian continued, "you are forging a bond. The sword is not merely for cutting; it is for protecting. For understanding the flow of life itself. You must trust in it."
Victor stared at the sword in his hands, a thousand thoughts battling for attention in his head. He didn't know if he could trust anything about this world—let alone the weapon that seemed to hum with power, as if it were alive.
But deep inside him, something else stirred. The feeling was faint—like a flicker of light in the dark—but it was there. Something primal, something ancient. It felt like a pull, like he wasn't alone. Like something or someone was guiding him, even if he didn't understand it yet.
Thorian's voice cut through his thoughts. "Now, strike."
Victor blinked. Strike? He wasn't ready to strike anything.
But Thorian's eyes were sharp, like a hawk circling its prey, and Victor could feel the weight of his expectations pressing down on him. It wasn't just about the sword. It was about this moment. The sword was a test, yes—but so was he.
Victor shifted his weight forward and, with a shaky breath, swung the sword toward the air in front of him. It felt awkward, the blade far heavier than he anticipated. His form was clumsy—nothing like Thorian's smooth movements—but he did it. The strike was weak, a limp cut through the air that hardly made a sound.
Thorian didn't move. He simply watched.
Victor's face burned with embarrassment. "That was awful…"
Thorian didn't respond immediately. He stepped forward, his boots silent on the stone, and grabbed Victor's wrist, gently but firmly. "No," he said, his voice steady, "It wasn't awful. It was a beginning."
Victor glanced up at him, eyes wide. "A beginning? That was just… a mess."
Thorian's grip on the sword tightened slightly, guiding Victor's hand. "When you begin something, it's always messy. But it's not the mess that matters—it's what you do with it. Let me show you."
In a flash of motion too fast for Victor to track, Thorian drew his own sword, his movements flowing like water. He slashed horizontally through the air with a precision that made the sword hum, the air splitting with the force of it. The tip of the blade glinted as it cut through nothing but air.
Victor watched, mesmerized.
"The sword has its own rhythm," Thorian continued. "It is an extension of your will, your focus. To wield it properly, you must listen to it. Feel its weight, its balance. Only then can you move with grace. Not against it."
Victor blinked, trying to comprehend the speed and fluidity of Thorian's movements. The way the sword arced through the air was like poetry, beautiful but deadly.
"Now," Thorian said, sheathing his sword with a soft shing, "let's try again."
Victor nodded, his heart still racing. He repositioned himself, taking a deep breath. This time, he focused, clearing his mind of doubt. He could hear the sword's hum beneath his fingers, like a whisper beckoning him forward.
He swung again.
It wasn't perfect—far from it. But this time, it was smoother. The arc of the blade wasn't entirely clumsy. There was a purpose to it, a sense of connection. It felt… right. It wasn't a perfect strike, but it was closer.
Thorian's eyes glittered with approval. "Better."
Victor exhaled sharply, feeling a mixture of relief and frustration. "Better? That was nothing. I—"
Thorian cut him off with a raised hand. "You're not looking for perfection, Victor. Not yet. You're learning to trust the sword. Trust yourself. That is your first lesson."
Victor stood in silence, gripping the sword with both hands now, the weight of it grounding him in a strange, unfamiliar way. Something within him had clicked, even if just for a moment. He wasn't sure what it meant, but there was a spark—a connection. A sense that perhaps, just perhaps, he could do this.
Thorian's voice broke through his thoughts again, steady and firm. "You will learn much in this world. You will face battles, both external and within yourself. But the first battle you must win is the one against doubt. Do not let it consume you."
Victor nodded, though his mind was still clouded with confusion. This was only the beginning. A beginning that felt more like a whirlwind. He didn't understand the path ahead, but one thing was clear—he had crossed into a world that would demand everything of him. And there was no turning back.
"Now," Thorian said, his tone softening, "rest. Tomorrow, we begin your next lesson. And it will be far harder than this."
Victor lowered the sword slowly, staring at it, his fingers still tingling from the connection. His body was sore, his mind weary, but there was no question in his mind anymore. He was in this world for a reason—whether he liked it or not. And he would fight to understand it.
Whatever it took
Victor stared at the gleaming sword in Thorian's hand, his heart hammering against his ribs. The air between them seemed to thicken, vibrating with the tension of unspoken words. He didn't want this. He didn't want any of it.
"Take it," Thorian said again, his tone unwavering.
Victor swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him like a storm cloud. The blade shimmered in Thorian's hand as though it had a life of its own, beckoning him. The edges of the sword caught the fading light, casting reflections across the stones beneath their feet. But Victor didn't move. He couldn't.
"I'm not ready," he whispered, almost to himself. "I don't know how to fight. I've never—"
"You don't need to know how," Thorian interrupted, his voice quiet but firm. "Not yet. But you will. And you will need to learn quickly. This world is not kind to those who hesitate."
Victor's mind raced. The words, you will need to learn quickly, echoed in his ears. Could he really do this? Could he become someone he didn't recognize? The boy who had been born in a small, sleepy village—who had no real ambitions beyond his next meal and his next breath—now found himself standing on the edge of something far bigger, something ancient and terrifying.
He took a slow step forward, his feet feeling heavy as if the stones beneath him had become thick with tar. Thorian remained still, watching, waiting.
Victor reached out tentatively and took hold of the sword's hilt. It was surprisingly warm, almost alive, and he flinched at the sensation. The blade seemed to hum in his grip, as if it recognized him, as if it was connected to something deep inside him that he couldn't yet understand. A strange, electric energy surged up his arm, but he gritted his teeth and held tight. There was no going back now.
As soon as his fingers closed around the hilt, Thorian nodded. "Good. Now, step into the stance I show you. And don't hesitate."
Victor did as he was told, though every part of him screamed in protest. He stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, the sword held at his side like he'd seen in movies and stories—but it didn't feel like a story. It felt real. Too real.
Thorian circled around him, his eyes sharp as he assessed Victor's posture. He raised a hand. "No, lower your stance. You're too stiff. The sword is an extension of you. Feel it. Let it become a part of you."
Victor's breath came in ragged gasps, the weight of the sword almost unbearable. The air around him was thick with tension, and the world seemed to shrink into a narrow focus—the man, the blade, the weight of it all.
"You are not just holding a weapon," Thorian continued, "you are forging a bond. The sword is not merely for cutting; it is for protecting. For understanding the flow of life itself. You must trust in it."
Victor stared at the sword in his hands, a thousand thoughts battling for attention in his head. He didn't know if he could trust anything about this world—let alone the weapon that seemed to hum with power, as if it were alive.
But deep inside him, something else stirred. The feeling was faint—like a flicker of light in the dark—but it was there. Something primal, something ancient. It felt like a pull, like he wasn't alone. Like something or someone was guiding him, even if he didn't understand it yet.
Thorian's voice cut through his thoughts. "Now, strike."
Victor blinked. Strike? He wasn't ready to strike anything.
But Thorian's eyes were sharp, like a hawk circling its prey, and Victor could feel the weight of his expectations pressing down on him. It wasn't just about the sword. It was about this moment. The sword was a test, yes—but so was he.
Victor shifted his weight forward and, with a shaky breath, swung the sword toward the air in front of him. It felt awkward, the blade far heavier than he anticipated. His form was clumsy—nothing like Thorian's smooth movements—but he did it. The strike was weak, a limp cut through the air that hardly made a sound.
Thorian didn't move. He simply watched.
Victor's face burned with embarrassment. "That was awful…"
Thorian didn't respond immediately. He stepped forward, his boots silent on the stone, and grabbed Victor's wrist, gently but firmly. "No," he said, his voice steady, "It wasn't awful. It was a beginning."
Victor glanced up at him, eyes wide. "A beginning? That was just… a mess."
Thorian's grip on the sword tightened slightly, guiding Victor's hand. "When you begin something, it's always messy. But it's not the mess that matters—it's what you do with it. Let me show you."
In a flash of motion too fast for Victor to track, Thorian drew his own sword, his movements flowing like water. He slashed horizontally through the air with a precision that made the sword hum, the air splitting with the force of it. The tip of the blade glinted as it cut through nothing but air.
Victor watched, mesmerized.
"The sword has its own rhythm," Thorian continued. "It is an extension of your will, your focus. To wield it properly, you must listen to it. Feel its weight, its balance. Only then can you move with grace. Not against it."
Victor blinked, trying to comprehend the speed and fluidity of Thorian's movements. The way the sword arced through the air was like poetry, beautiful but deadly.
"Now," Thorian said, sheathing his sword with a soft shing, "let's try again."
Victor nodded, his heart still racing. He repositioned himself, taking a deep breath. This time, he focused, clearing his mind of doubt. He could hear the sword's hum beneath his fingers, like a whisper beckoning him forward.
He swung again.
It wasn't perfect—far from it. But this time, it was smoother. The arc of the blade wasn't entirely clumsy. There was a purpose to it, a sense of connection. It felt… right. It wasn't a perfect strike, but it was closer.
Thorian's eyes glittered with approval. "Better."
Victor exhaled sharply, feeling a mixture of relief and frustration. "Better? That was nothing. I—"
Thorian cut him off with a raised hand. "You're not looking for perfection, Victor. Not yet. You're learning to trust the sword. Trust yourself. That is your first lesson."
Victor stood in silence, gripping the sword with both hands now, the weight of it grounding him in a strange, unfamiliar way. Something within him had clicked, even if just for a moment. He wasn't sure what it meant, but there was a spark—a connection. A sense that perhaps, just perhaps, he could do this.
Thorian's voice broke through his thoughts again, steady and firm. "You will learn much in this world. You will face battles, both external and within yourself. But the first battle you must win is the one against doubt. Do not let it consume you."
Victor nodded, though his mind was still clouded with confusion. This was only the beginning. A beginning that felt more like a whirlwind. He didn't understand the path ahead, but one thing was clear—he had crossed into a world that would demand everything of him. And there was no turning back.
"Now," Thorian said, his tone softening, "rest. Tomorrow, we begin your next lesson. And it will be far harder than this."
Victor lowered the sword slowly, staring at it, his fingers still tingling from the connection. His body was sore, his mind weary, but there was no question in his mind anymore. He was in this world for a reason—whether he liked it or not. And he would fight to understand it.
Whatever it took