Five Years Later
The wooden sword cracked against Zilvie's shoulder.
"Sloppy," Izak said. "Your stance is too wide. You're leaving your left side completely exposed."
Zilvie gritted her teeth and adjusted her footing. At fifteen, she had grown taller, leaner, her silver hair now brushing her shoulders. But her movements still lacked the fluid precision of a seasoned fighter.
"Again," Izak commanded.
She attacked. Izak deflected her strike with minimal effort, stepped inside her guard, and tapped her ribs with the flat of his practice sword.
"Dead," he said. "If this were real, you'd have three broken ribs and a punctured lung. Again."
Zilvie's hands shook. Frustration burned in her chest. She had trained every day for five years. Every morning before dawn, every evening until her arms ached. And still, she wasn't good enough.
She glanced at Pinky, who sat at the edge of the training ground, cleaning his father's sword with a rag. He had grown too, now sixteen, taller, broader. His pink hair had darkened slightly with age but remained unmistakable. He moved with an easy confidence that she envied.
"Don't compare yourself to him," Izak said quietly, following her gaze. "You'll drive yourself mad."
"I'm not comparing," she lied.
"You are. And it's understandable. Pinky's growth rate is unlike anything I've seen. He's already approaching my level, and he's not even seventeen." Izak placed a hand on her shoulder. "But talent isn't everything. Determination matters too. Heart matters. You have both."
"Then why can't I beat him? Why can't I even come close?"
Izak was silent for a moment. "Some people are born with gifts that can't be explained. It doesn't make them better. It just makes them different. Your path will be harder, but that doesn't mean it's less worthy."
He stepped back and raised his practice sword. "Now. Again."
***
Later that day, Izak sparred with Pinky.
The difference was immediately apparent. Where Zilvie's attacks had been readable, predictable, Pinky's were sharp and unpredictable. He flowed from one stance to another like water, each movement precise, each strike purposeful.
But Izak was still Izak.
He blocked, parried, redirected. His experience showed in every motion. When Pinky overextended, Izak punished him. When Pinky tried to feint, Izak saw through it.
The spar ended with Pinky on his back, Izak's practice sword at his throat.
"Better," Izak said, offering his hand. "You almost had me in the middle there. That combination was new."
Pinky accepted the hand and rose. He made a gesture, touching his temple, then pointing at Izak.
"You noticed my tells?" Izak chuckled. "Good. I've been trying to hide them. Seems I need more practice too."
Zilvie watched from the sidelines, her wooden sword forgotten in her lap. She saw how Izak smiled at Pinky, how he spoke to him like an equal. She saw how Pinky responded, his gestures becoming animated, almost excited.
She looked down at her own hands. Callused. Blistered. Five years of work, and she still couldn't make Izak smile like that.
***
Evening came, and with it, the smell of cooking.
Izak stood over a pot, stirring something that filled the small cottage with warmth. He was surprisingly good at cooking, a skill that seemed at odds with his reputation as one of the village's strongest knights.
"It's my mother's recipe," he said, ladling stew into wooden bowls. "She always said that a knight who can't cook is a knight who can't survive. Demon slaying is temporary. Hunger is forever."
Pinky made a gesture of appreciation and dug in.
Zilvie picked at her food. Her appetite had vanished somewhere between her twentieth failed attempt at the basic defensive form and her hundredth comparison of herself to Pinky.
Izak noticed. He always noticed.
"Zilvie," he said gently. "Can I give you some advice?"
She looked up.
"Love and envy cannot coexist," he said. "If you spend your life measuring yourself against others, you'll never appreciate how far you've come. The girl who arrived at my door five years ago could barely hold a sword. The woman sitting before me now could defeat most trainees her age."
"But not Pinky."
"No. Not Pinky." Izak took a sip of water. "But that's not the point, is it? You didn't become a knight to beat Pinky. You became a knight because of him. Because of what he represents to you."
Zilvie's spoon clattered against her bowl. "How did you..."
"I have eyes," Izak said simply. "And I was young once. Love isn't something you can hide, no matter how hard you try."
He glanced at Pinky, who was obliviously consuming his second bowl of stew.
"Talk to him," Izak suggested. "You'd be surprised what honesty can accomplish."
"I can't," Zilvie whispered. "Not until I'm strong enough. Not until I can stand beside him as an equal."
Izak sighed. "Strength isn't just about swords, child. The heart can be strong too. Sometimes, that's the strength that matters most."