“You have to keep your guard up at all times Laranthel,” called Arava as he poked and prodded at the young teen standing across from him. Laranthel, for his part, was doing his utmost to try and parry and block Arava’s blade as it danced in and out of his guard at will. “You’re overthinking it, use your training, react! React!”

  “Gah!” Laranthel took a poke to his chest and backed away from his father, a mistake. The taller man took the ground and continued to pressure Laranthel backwards, trying to ruin his balance.

  “Ah, I’m getting ahead of myself.” Arava ceased his assault and backed away; his sword still poised to strike at Laranthel. He eyed his son with caution, awaiting his next move.

  The last test thought Laranthel. He’d wait for Laranthel to let his guard down and strike at him when he thought the fight was over. “Don’t turn your back on someone whose sword is still drawn,” he’d say. So, the two of them stood staring at each other, blades at the ready. Laranthel had recently “graduated” from the rapier and was now being taught how to use a heavier side-sword which was apparently more useful in the military, according to his father.

  “Good, you’re learning.” Arava sheathed his sword and put his hands on his hips. “Ah, perhaps you’ll get better instructors in Eliaran when you set off on Osenus.”

  Laranthel was stricken by his father’s words, the big man was a phenomenal swordsman, how could he say such a thing, Laranthel thought. “Come now dad, that can’t be true, you’re a fine swordsman, the finest in the province probably!”

  “Oh, haha, I don’t mean that,” chuckled Arava, his chin turned up as he began to laugh in earnest. “I meant in terms of sword instruction. I never was a good teacher; all of this is instinct to me. Though I hope I’ve imparted at least the basics on to you, for your time at the academy.”

  Laranthel nodded in response replying: “I suppose we’ll see in a few days.” He sheathed his sword and followed his father out of the practice pens and down the path that led from the training fields back into town. The path stretched through rolling hills, merging into a small wooden bridge over a canal that fed into the multiple streams and ponds around the town before turning back into a dry beaten path. The midday sun beat down upon Greenhill, bathing the land in a pleasant heat that was cooled by the summer breeze.

  “And you know your histories? What am I saying, of course you do!” Arava laughed for a few seconds then suddenly became lost in thought, his face wrinkled into a look of concentration. “Your magic may be trouble though, hmm…oh yes!” Arava turned to his son, the two of them still walking down the path to the rows of houses that made up south Greenhill. The young boy had grown significantly over the past seven years. He stood an easy five foot nine, and his frame started to widen and fill out, not as bulky as his father but more imposing than other teens his age. His skin was a sun kissed blue, slightly paler than his mother or fathers, like a darkened shade of the sky. The two wore a metal breastplate that covered their entire torsos with a thick piece of shining steel, blue padded gambesons beneath. Black banded pants and black leather boots covered their legs and feet.

  “My magic?” Laranthel looked at his father quizzically.

  “Yes, I haven’t told you this yet! We have some demi-god blood in us, from your grandmother! It’s why I have blue eyes! Well, why I developed them anyways. My eyes originally looked like yours and your mother’s—,” Arava continued his rambling, talking about how his eyes used to look, how Marianne was surprised when his eyes suddenly turned a deep blue and his sclera darkened.

  “Okay, I get it dad, but what does this have to do with my magic?” As far as Laranthel knew, the only person who used magic very often was his mother, and that was because she was born a sorcerer, innately gifted with the ability to manipulate magic like a muscle. And neither Laranthel nor Arava seemed to share this gift, which made Laranthel question where his father was going with the topic.

  “Okay, so because we aren’t completely Night Person or Imunani, we can use both normal magic and the void magic the Imunani use. Well, after a certain point your Imunani powers might “eat” your other magic. Thus, starting you on a path to demigodhood.” Arava paused, turning to his son to see his reaction. “Maybe.”

  “Dad, that sounds ridiculous.” Laranthel frowned, he didn’t believe his father’s words. They didn’t make any sense. “I thought all that stuff was just stories. And even if it isn’t, how in the world could you and I be demi-gods? Wouldn’t someone a little lower on the family tree need to be an actual god?” The more Laranthel thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded.

  Arava threw up his arms in defeat. “Hey, hey, I’m not going to argue about the truth. You’ll figure it out on your own one day, if you indeed do have the blood that I have, which I’m almost certain you do.”

  Laranthel nodded his head, his frown still present and his mind still skeptical. They continued back to their home at the edge of a little square of houses tucked in at the edge of town. Arava walked up the stone stairs leading up to their porch and took a seat on a wooden rocking chair beside the door.

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  “Head inside and get cleaned up, I’m going to sit out here for a while and enjoy the sunlight.” Arava began to rock himself back and forth in the chair, unstrapping his sword from his hip and placing it across his lap. Laranthel nodded at his father and pushed open the door to the house and walked inside.

  “Ugh, what a day,” Laranthel groaned aloud. He kicked off his dirty boots and put on some house shoes then walked over to the kitchen. He grabbed a skin of freshwater hanging from a nail on their bottle rack and drank deeply from the leathery bag, sighing contentedly when he finished.

  Laranthel?” called Marriane questioningly from the back living room. Laranthel set the skin back on its hook and peeked his head out of the kitchen and into the dining room where he could see into the living room.

  “Mother?” he called back.

  “Come, sit my son, soon you will be off to school, and I won’t be able to talk with you like this for a while,” said Marriane in a soft voice. Laranthel took a moment to reply, he wanted to take a bath and strip from his sparring clothes. “Come, sit boy!”

  “Yes mother,” Laranthel replied hurrying into the living room and taking a seat at the padded chair across from the couch his mother was sitting on.

  “Are you excited,” she asked smiling at her chair. On her lap was a tome on magic, she was probably practicing her own craft while Laranthel and his father were out sparring.

  “Yeah,” Laranthel replied sheepishly. “A little worried too.”

  “Oh, don’t be worried you will be perfectly fine in Eliaran! You’re swordplay might not be as good as your father’s, but it’s better than anyone else’s at your age!” His mother smiled brightly at Laranthel, realizing her son didn’t understand how truly special he was, how much effort she and Arava had put into making him strong and smart. “I suspect that when they get around to teaching you magic, you’ll pick that up easily as well.”

  Laranthel was just as skeptical of his mother’s words as he was at his father’s. He pushed the anxious feelings down and tried to focus on the positives. He wanted this, after all; to travel, even if it was only to the nearest city a few days north. “Don’t worry mother, I know I’ll succeed wherever I go.”

  “Now that is the right attitude! Oh, I’m so excited for you Laranthel!” Marianne nearly jumped from her chair to smother Laranthel in an embrace but thought better of it when she realized he still had his armor and sword strapped on. “Go on, take your bath. We’ll all talk more before you head out to go be with your friends.” Laranthel nodded and rushed to the stairs. Watching her son dart off stirred countless memories of her little boy climbing trees, sneaking into pastries, and speaking with friends while on punishment. Oh, how the time flies, she thought. But time was a luxury they all had in spades.

  “Hello, my love,” hummed Arava in his low voice as he waltzed into the living room from the house’s main hallway. He plopped down beside Marianne and gave her a peck on the cheek before leaning back into his seat. “How was your day today?” Marianne looked at Arava blankly in response to his question.

  “…You left an hour and a half ago,” she replied, prying open her spell book, picking up on the page she left off on. “Do be serious my husband!”

  “Oh, I’m always serious, as serious as can be.” Arava closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. “I hope he’ll be alright out there…”

  “Ohhh, look at you, my dashing, anxious man. Come here.” Marianne set her book aside and pulled Arava’s head into an embrace. She was glad he had the sense to take his armor off, though he had the musk of sweat and grass from his time outside. “He’ll be fine, no need to worry. Its us I’m worried about; we might have to join the levy here shortly.”

  “Yeah, that too,” muttered Arava from his place on Marianne’s chest. He frowned and said: “You really know how to cheer someone up don’t you, my love? Positively perfect.”

  “Oh, hush you,” Marianne replied squeezing him tighter. “That’s just the way things are, you know that.” Her husband shifted in her embrace. They were in an awkward, but comfortable, position. Arava’s upper body rested in Marianne’s torso; his gaze focused on an old painting of their family made a few months after the boy’s birth.

  Arava closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. Oh, how the times change, he thought. War was brewing and it was making the big man nervous. Already cities in the far north were under siege, it was only a matter of time before the invaders came south. Arava knew he’d have to fight, and Marianne would likely have to participate as well, albeit in a noncombative role. And my son must go to school in all this? It is too much!

  “Hey, hey! Be calm Arava! Be calm!” Marianne sensed her husband’s anxiety and tried to reassure him. She herself was nervous, but her attitude to life was more lackadaisical. Whatever happens, happens; good or bad. “He’ll be fine wherever he goes, he’s a strong boy! Perhaps even stronger than either of us one day!”

  “Now that would be something,” replied Arava, his anxieties beginning to fade. “Perhaps you aren’t too terrible at providing consolation after all!”

  Marianne gave Arava’s hair a rough tug. “You are so funny, dear!”

  “I know.” He turned toward Marianne and bit her stomach through the fabric of her dress. It was blue, as usual. Most of the clothing sold on the coast was, after all. She fidgeted around until she released Arava allowing him to stand up from the couch. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Husband, this memory loss of yours is becoming concerning! You bought some beef and potatoes for stew earlier! Don’t you remember?” Marianne crossed her arms and gave Arava a look of concern.

  “Yes, yes I remember now,” replied Arava defensively. “Oh, gods forbid I forget something so inconsequential during such a turbulent time in my life!”

  “Well, as long as you understand,” replied Marianne from her seat on the couch. “Start the stew, I’ll be up in a moment to help with the cooking.” Arava nodded and walked towards the kitchen.

  Osenus, the Unmor word for the third day of the week, called Nyxa in Nxyean. Both languages part of the Hollsari language group