Bran Frost had seen hundreds of boys lift their first swords. Most flailed. Some improved. A few had promise.
But Aric? The lad was something else.
He watched from the treeline as the boy squared off against the horned boar. The beast thundered forward, tusks tearing the ground. For a heartbeat Bran thought the boy would freeze—most lads his age would. But Aric moved, feet cutting across the dirt in a clean sidestep. Quickstep. Bran almost grunted approval.
The first boar should've gored him. Bran knew it the second it charged. Tusks low, weight behind it — even trained guards lost legs that way.
But Aric didn't freeze. He slipped to the side, light on his feet, and drove his blade into its flank. For a moment Bran's breath caught — a streak of light ran down the iron like a spark catching steel. The beast toppled, dead before it finished its charge.
Bran blinked hard. "What in the hells…" he muttered under his breath. That wasn't one of his drills.
The rest of the day only deepened the knot in his gut. The boy adjusted after every mistake, strikes tightening, footing sharper. By the second day, when the hornfang wolves came out of the brush, Bran expected him to falter. Five of them, circling, snapping.
Aric met them head on. He cut the first down with a clean thrust, danced past the second with footwork Bran only taught in theory, then brought his sword down in another one of those… flashes. By the time the last wolf fell, the boy's chest was heaving, his clothes torn, but his eyes burned steady.
Bran exhaled slowly, spear still in hand, not because Aric needed saving — but because he couldn't quite believe what he'd seen.
That night, back at Frosthold, Bran went straight to the solar. Cedric sat waiting, the fire casting half his face in shadow.
"Well?" Cedric asked.
Bran set his helm down on the table. "He's not the boy I thought he was."
Cedric's gaze sharpened. "Explain."
"The first boar should've crushed him. He dodged it like he'd drilled the move a hundred times. There was… a light on his blade. Not sunlight. Something else. I didn't teach him that."
Cedric's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"And the wolves," Bran went on, voice lower now. "Ten of them, at least. He fought like someone who's been cornered before. Not like a child. Every mistake turned into something sharper. By the end… he wasn't just holding his ground. He was winning."
Silence stretched. The fire popped in the hearth.
Cedric leaned back, eyes unreadable. "And what do you make of it?"
Bran hesitated, a rare thing for him. "…I don't know. He learns too fast. Fights too hard for a boy his age. There's something in him — I can't name it. Dangerous, maybe. Or… something we'll need."
Cedric drummed his fingers once against the table, then stopped. "Keep it quiet. Train him when you can. And Bran—watch him. Closely."
Bran gave a short nod. "Aye."
But as he left the solar, his grip on the helm tightened.Because for the first time in years, the old soldier wasn't sure if what he'd seen in the woods had been skill, or something else entirely.