The days slipped by in a rhythm of training and laughter, the lonely house no longer so lonely.
Outside, the three of them—Marco, Ivan, and Yuhan—swung their wooden swords beneath the open sky. The drills were simple, yet demanding: three heavy downward slashes, cutting into the wind, followed by upright strikes with the right arm only. Their arms ached, their breathing ragged, but the repetition anchored them.
Mikayle stood apart, a blur of movement as his wooden sword carved through air. His slashes had a weight the others couldn't match, his rhythm like a dance honed through battles none of them had lived. Ivan, though prideful, couldn't help but acknowledge it: Mikayle was different. On another level entirely.
As for Yuhan, the "corpse" boy had begun to change. He no longer sat motionless like an egg machine waiting to crack. He moved. He trained. He even helped Marco in the kitchen, chopping vegetables or stoking the fire. Small things, yet each step seemed to return him to the world of the living.
Master Tormond leaned against the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, eyes sharp but gentle. He watched them move—the clumsy swings of Yuhan, the proud stubbornness of Ivan, Marco's endless energy, and Mikayle's effortless control.
He didn't intervene, only observed, letting the boys find their rhythm. But when Yuhan misstepped, about to trip over his own sword, Master's hand shot out instinctively, steadying him without a word. Yuhan's eyes widened, and for the first time, he looked at Master and gave a small nod of acknowledgment.
Tormond smiled faintly to himself.
"Even broken ones can find their footing if someone only notices them."
Marco suddenly stopped mid-swing, his face lighting up.
"Mikayle! Let's go to the grassland!" he shouted, waving his arms.
Ivan and Yuhan froze, dumbfounded.
Mikayle didn't stop his slashes. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, cutting into invisible enemies. His voice was cold.
"Do your training, Marco."
Disappointment washed over Marco's face as he dragged his feet back into line. Ivan and Yuhan silently resumed their swings, the rhythm dull and heavy.
Then—Mikayle turned. His grin broke across his face like sunlight, and his eyes gleamed with childish excitement.
"We'll go after training ends."
Marco leapt where he stood, joy bursting out of him. Ivan rolled his eyes, but a faint smile betrayed him. Even Yuhan's lips curved almost imperceptibly.
The hill rolled gently underfoot, the forest thinning until the trees gave way to a breathtaking expanse. Before them stretched a sea of green—an endless grassland rippling like waves beneath the golden touch of the sun. Each blade of grass shimmered, catching the light like tiny threads of fire and emerald, swaying lazily in the whispering wind. The sun poured down in rich honeyed streams, casting long, soft shadows that danced with the movement of the grass.
A narrow dirt path wound through the plain, half-hidden beneath the swaying stalks that rose to knee-height. The air smelled of earth, wildflowers, and the faint, clean tang of distant water. The wind carried with it a sense of freedom, brushing over skin, teasing hair, and filling lungs with the quiet power of open space. Here, the sky seemed impossibly vast, a dome of blue so deep it pressed gently on the heart, and the horizon stretched into a gentle blur where earth met sky.
There were no fences, no roads, no markers to guide the eye.
Only the soft rustle of grass, the distant cry of birds, and the light that seemed to pour over the world without effort or restraint. Time itself felt suspended, slowed by the serenity of the place, as if the land itself held its breath beneath the sun's golden gaze.
Even the ground beneath them seemed alive. When they stepped, the grass bent and recovered, sending ripples outward like water disturbed by a stone. The sound of their footsteps—soft thuds against the fertile earth—was carried away by the wind, leaving only a sense of stillness and infinity.
For Yuhan, the effect was almost magical. His eyes widened, lips parting involuntarily. The first word he spoke in days left his mouth like a soft exhale:
"…Beautiful."
Marco's chest rose in excitement, arms spread wide as if to embrace the entire field. Mikayle's grin stretched across his face, eyes sparkling like sunlight caught in glass. Even Ivan, prideful and wary, found his steps slower, more careful, as though savoring the freedom that stretched before them.
Above, the sun began its slow descent, turning the world golden, then amber, then fiery orange, bathing the grass in warmth and light. Shadows lengthened, painting the hills in contrast, and a gentle hush fell over the land. It was a place that felt untouched by time, a canvas for laughter, discovery, and the unspoken bonds forming among them.
Here, in the endless grass, the boys could run, tumble, chase, and fall without consequence. Here, the world belonged entirely to them, a playground of green that promised freedom, trust, and a fleeting taste of peace that no chains or fear could ever hold.
From the edge of the grassland, Master Tormond quietly followed. He crouched low, observing them. When Marco nearly tripped while sprinting, Master's hand shot out to steady him, a gentle grip. "Balance, boy. Watch your steps."
Yuhan, encouraged by Master's presence, ran a little straighter, laughed a little louder. For the first time, he actively sought Marco's eye during the chase, sharing in triumphs and failures alike.
Mikayle noticed Master watching him and Ivan, standing slightly apart, teasing and chasing with a sharp precision. Their subtle interactions—the hand offered to help Ivan up, Ivan taking it without hesitation—were small threads weaving a bond none of them could yet name. Master's silent presence made every movement safer, every misstep less frightening.
Hours passed in playful chaos. Marco explained the rules, Yuhan stumbled, Ivan teased, and Mikayle observed with careful amusement.
Yuhan & Marco: Every stumble led to a helping hand. Every fall became an opportunity to trust and be trusted. They laughed, tumbled, and learned together.
Every dodge, every feint, every near-catch became a silent conversation. Challenges turned into understanding. Respect was forming, quiet and fierce.
Master Tormond sat on a small rise, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He didn't intervene, only watched, letting the boys grow, letting bonds form naturally, giving them the space to learn trust, courage, and laughter.
As the sun dipped low, painting the grassland gold and crimson, the boys collapsed in the soft blades, breathless and laughing. Yuhan whispered, "…It's the first time I feel… like I'm living."
No one spoke. They didn't need to.
Master Tormond stepped closer as night fell, quiet but present. Mikayle caught his eye and nodded slightly, Ivan offered a small grin, and Yuhan looked down, shy but comforted. A family, bound not by blood but by care, laughter, and shared experience.
The sky had darkened. Stars glittered, the moon casting silver across the hill. At the doorstep, Master Tormond sat cross-legged, his eyes reflecting the starlight.
"Tonight, I'll cooked," he announced, his rare smile softening the night.
Silence. Four pairs of eyes widened.
Mikayle scowled mockingly.
"…We're fasting."
"Hey! I'm not that bad!" Master barked, half-angry, half-amused.
Their laughter echoed across the hill, a warm sound that seemed to say the lonely house was no longer lonely at all.