Chapter 3 - A Blade forged in fire

  Alric was grateful for Morgan’s offer, spending the next few days recovering in a haven of warmth and safety. Morgan, a kind man with a past etched into the lines of his face, quickly earned Alric’s trust. Through their conversations, Alric learned of Morgan’s youth as a soldier, now replaced by the peaceful life of a blacksmith in the village.

  Morgan’s daughter, Riya, brought a new dimension to Alric’s world. A year older than him, with long, flowing dark hair framing her delicate face and bright blue eyes sparkling with intelligence and warmth, Alric found himself drawn to her. Her gentle nature and warm smile soothed his wounded spirit.

  In Morgan’s forge, Alric discovered more than the art of blacksmithing; he found a space for healing and self-discovery. The relentless heat met the steady rhythm of the hammer on the anvil, creating a sanctuary where Alric could reshape his very being. His initial attempts were awkward, each swing of the hammer heavy and uncertain, but under Morgan's watchful eye, he gradually found his rhythm.

  Alric learned to recognize the color of the metal, glowing in the fire, indicating when it was ready to be shaped. He understood the delicate balance between force and precision, the way the metal yielded under the hammer, transforming into something new. During the monotonous rhythm of shaping metal, Alric's mind often drifted, imagining himself as a hero in a grand tale, storming a fortress to rescue his brother Rylan. His movements grew fluid and confident, a stark contrast to his early, awkward attempts. The red-hot metal glowed under his hammer, bending to his will, much like he adapted to his new life.

  As he paused, wiping the sweat from his brow, he gazed into the dancing flames and wondered about Rylan. Where was his brother now? Was he safe?

  The fire had once been an enemy. It had devoured his village, swallowed his family whole. Now, under Morgan’s guidance, it was something else—something that could be shaped, controlled. It could destroy, but it could also create.

  He struck the metal too hard. The hammer slipped, sending a jagged spark flying past his face. He cursed, shaking out his stinging hand.

  "You’re fighting it," Morgan observed, his voice even. "The metal, the fire. They aren’t your enemies, lad. Work with them, not against them."

  Alric exhaled, steadying himself. Maybe Morgan was talking about more than just the forge.

  In that moment, Alric realized his nightmares were receding, replaced by calm acceptance and a growing sense of purpose.

  In the sunlit fields, Alric trained under Morgan's watchful eye, learning the art of the sword, while in a darker corner of the realm, Rylan faced a different kind of education. The barracks were filled with children, all snatched from their destroyed homes, their futures as grim as their surroundings.

  Emeric walked among the rows of scared young recruits, his gaze piercing and calculating. He stopped in front of Rylan, who met his stare with an intensity that belied his years. There was pure, unadulterated hatred in the boy’s eyes, a fire that burned even brighter as Emeric’s shadow fell over him.

  “You hate me, boy?” Emeric asked, his voice low and taunting.

  “You killed my father, you monster!” Rylan spat back, his small frame shaking with a mixture of fear and rage.

  Emeric’s smirk was cruel, a twist of his lips that sent chills down the spines of those who dared watch. “I see,” he mused, mockingly contemplative. “To you, that was the day your world crashed to the ground in flames, the stuff of nightmares... To me, it was a Tuesday.” His laughter echoed off the stone walls.

  “Good, I’m glad you hate me,” Emeric continued, reaching into his belt and pulling out a knife. He flipped it, handle first, towards Rylan. “Go ahead, boy. Take your vengeance if you’ve got it in you.”

  The knife landed at Rylan’s feet with a metallic clatter. The room held its breath. Rylan looked from the knife up to Emeric’s mocking face, then to the expectant eyes of the other children around him. His hand trembled as he picked up the weapon, the weight of it both a promise and a curse.

  For a long moment, everything stood still. Rylan’s arm strained with the weight of the knife as he held it up, aiming shakily at Emeric’s throat. But his eyes, filled with tears of rage and helplessness, betrayed him. He was a child, not a killer.

  The knife was heavier than it should be. Rylan could see it—see himself driving it into Emeric’s throat, feel the warmth of blood on his hands. The others would cheer. Or maybe they would stare, horrified.

  His grip tightened. If he failed, he would die. If he succeeded... what then?

  His hand trembled. The weight of the decision was too much.

  The knife slipped from his fingers. It hit the stone floor with a deafening clang.

  "I can’t," he choked out, shame pressing into his chest like a brand.

  Emeric’s laughter filled the room again as he retrieved his knife. “No, of course, you can’t. And remember this day, boy. Remember that hatred, and when you’re ready to use it, you’ll find I’ve taught you something invaluable.”

  Rylan watched Emeric walk away, his knees weak with a mix of relief and seething shame that would fester into a vengeful resolve. He picked up the knife again, gripping it tightly, a symbol of the vow he made to himself. One day, he would not falter. One day, he would be ready.

  Alric's thoughts were interrupted by Riya's arrival, carrying a jug of water and a small cloth. “You’re getting quite good at this,” she said, her voice tinged with admiration.

  He glanced at his work, then back at Riya, smiling. “I think I am,” he admitted. It wasn't just about mastering the craft; it was about mastering his past, not allowing it to hold sway over his present.

  As Riya gently helped cool his hands, Alric found himself sharing snippets of his past—not with the heaviness he used to feel, but with a sense of sharing memories from a life he had lived, not a shadow that loomed over him.

  Riya paused, noticing a faraway look that shadowed his smile momentarily. “You had the dream again, didn’t you? The one where you’re falling?”

  Alric’s gaze flickered with a trace of surprise, touched by her perceptiveness. “Yes,” he murmured, looking away. “It’s the same cliff, the same feeling of... emptiness.” His voice was a low echo of past fears that clung stubbornly to his subconscious.

  She squeezed his hand slightly, her touch grounding. “It's more than just a dream, isn’t it? It’s a reminder of what you’ve survived, of what you’ve lost, but also of the strength you found to keep going.”

  Her words, meant to comfort, stirred something within him—a blend of gratitude and a painful twinge of memory. “It is. Each time I wake from it, I find myself here, in this new life you and your father have helped me build. It’s... disorienting but also reassuring.”

  Riya nodded, her eyes reflecting understanding. “Dreams have a way of telling us things that our waking minds refuse to acknowledge. Maybe this one’s telling you that you’ve not fallen—you’ve been caught, here, by new bonds, new strengths.”

  Alric considered her words, a softness settling in his eyes as he looked back at her. “Maybe,” he allowed himself a tentative smile, “and maybe I’m finally ready to stop falling.”

  It was a subtle shift, but a significant one. In the forge, amidst the heat and toil, Alric was not just forging metal; he was forging a new self, one that could acknowledge the past without being consumed by it.

  Morgan taught with a patience honed by years on the battlefield, weaving tales of his soldiering days into each lesson. His stories, rich with themes of resilience and adaptability, were not just about war but about the peace he found in the rhythms of the forge. "Every piece of metal has its own character, much like a soldier on the battlefield. You must understand it, work with it, not against it," Morgan would say, his hands effortlessly moving the glowing metal. One evening, as the fire in the forge dimmed, Morgan shared a tale of a difficult choice he had to make in his youth, drawing parallels to Alric’s current crossroads. 'Sometimes, the hardest battles are those within us,' Morgan said, his words leaving a lasting impression on Alric.

  As Alric’s skills grew, so did his confidence. The forge became a place where he could lose himself in the rhythm of his work, the heat of the fire a comforting embrace. It was here that Alric felt closest to his lost brother, the memories of their shared dreams and aspirations fueling his determination to master the craft.

  Riya often watched him from the doorway, her presence a silent encouragement. In the evenings, as she helped him nurse his blistered hands, her gentle inquiries about his past were met with his hesitant but growing openness. She would bring him water, her hands lingering in his for a moment longer than necessary, her eyes reflecting pride and something deeper, an unspoken bond forming between them.

  As the twilight hues painted the sky in shades of orange and purple, Alric and Riya found a serene spot to rest, the day’s journey behind them. The quiet of the evening brought a peace that seemed almost out of place given the turmoil that lay behind and ahead of them. Riya, with a small, thoughtful smile, shared tales of her village—each story a tapestry of life’s simple joys and community spirit.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “There’s so much out there,” Riya mused, her eyes reflecting the firelight and a spark of deep-seated wanderlust. “Beyond the hills, beyond the rivers... unknown and beckoning.” Her voice held a mix of excitement and apprehension, a longing to embrace a world so vast and unexplored.

  Alric listened, the warmth from the fire doing little to ward off the chill of his memories. Riya’s words stirred something within him, a torrent of nostalgia that he often kept dammed. “Rylan and I, we were inseparable as kids,” Alric began, his voice soft but carrying a weight of unspoken sorrow. “Being twins, everything was a competition, yet nothing could really pull us apart. He walked first, but I talked first. We even had our own language, if you can believe it.”

  He chuckled lightly, though the sound was more melancholic than merry. “We’d swap places just to see if anyone would notice. At the market, at school, fooling our friends, even our parents once or twice. And our walks…” His voice trailed off, lost in the recollections of endless days spent roaming the village paths, embarking on boyish adventures. “We shared everything,” Alric continued, his gaze drifting to the flickering flames. “Dreams of knighthood, of adventures beyond the sea, of returning home as heroes. It’s funny how we used to pretend to be each other, thinking we could shoulder each other’s burdens that way.”

  In the evenings, Morgan’s tales of his soldiering days added depth to the wisdom Alric saw in him daily. Morgan often drew parallels between the life of a soldier and that of a blacksmith. “Both require patience, strength, and an understanding of the material you work with, be it metal or your own spirit,” he would say, a distant look in his eyes that spoke of a life rich in experiences.

  One evening, as Riya served a stew similar to what Alric’s mother used to make, a wave of nostalgia washed over him. The aroma, the warmth of the dish, it was all too familiar. He was suddenly back in his family home, laughter filling the air as his mother placed the same stew before him and Rylan. “Eat up, it’ll make you strong,” she would say with a loving smile. The memory, so vivid and unexpected, brought a lump to Alric's throat. For a moment, he was lost in the past, aching for the comfort of those simple family dinners, now forever out of reach.

  Alric, lying in his bed at night, would ponder Morgan’s words, finding in them a map for his own journey of healing. The rhythm of the forge, the kindness in Riya’s eyes, and Morgan’s stories of resilience were weaving a new tapestry of life, one where Alric could see himself not just surviving, but thriving.

  In the clearing behind Morgan's home, surrounded by ancient trees that seemed to murmur old secrets, shafts of sunlight broke through the dense canopy, casting patterns of light and shadow that danced around Alric and Riya. Each movement they made stirred the dappled light, creating a ballet of brightness and darkness that mirrored the tumult within Alric.

  Alric, his focus occasionally drifting to Riya, admired her fluid movements, a dance of strength and grace.

  Morgan, his voice firm yet gentle, guided them through the intricacies of swordsmanship. "Swordsmanship is not just about wielding a blade," he explained. "It is about finesse, control, and understanding the dance between life and death. Find your stance, be grounded yet ready to move."

  As Alric adjusted his footing, trying to mimic Morgan's posture, his gaze inadvertently shifted to Riya. He watched her, entranced. 'She moves with such purpose, so sure of herself. How does she manage to be so strong and yet so gentle?' he wondered. The sight of her – focused, determined – stirred a warmth in him that he struggled to understand. 'She's like the fire in the forge, isn't she? Bright, essential, drawing everyone to her warmth. And here I am, getting lost in her light.' His thoughts wandered further, imagining training sessions turning into long walks, conversations… Lost in this daydream, he was jolted back to reality only when Morgan’s blade tapped sharply against his ribs.

  "Daydreaming on the battlefield can cost you your life, lad," Morgan chided with a twinkle in his eye.

  Riya, catching the moment, let out a soft giggle, her eyes meeting Alric’s. Her amusement was infectious, and despite his embarrassment, Alric found himself smiling too. The moment lightened the seriousness of their training, bringing a moment of shared camaraderie.

  Morgan paused, his eyes distant. “Once, I had to make a split-second decision in battle. It was my awareness, not just of the enemy but of my surroundings, that saved us.” His gaze returned to the present. “Every lesson has its roots in reality, Alric.”

  Morgan's voice grew more intense as he paced before them. "Remember, a skilled swordsman is always attuned to his surroundings. Keep your focus sharp," he instructed, his gaze piercing. "Your blade is a mere extension of your will, as crucial as your own limbs, and your mind must remain as keen as its edge."

  Each swing, every parry, is a testament to your will. "But never forget that it is a dance—a dance with your opponent, with their intentions and movements. Watch their eyes, their body language. Learn to anticipate their every step," Morgan instructed.

  Alric nodded, his eyes widening with a mix of determination and anticipation. The sword in his hand felt weightier, more significant, as if it held the echoes of battles fought and victories won.

  As Alric parried and thrust, flashes of his last day with Rylan intruded. He tried to push them away, but they clung to him, a constant reminder of what he had lost and what he was fighting to regain.

  Beside him, Riya moved with a natural grace, her own wooden sword an extension of her will, her focus as intense as Alric's.

  "Now, let us speak of defense," Morgan continued. "A good swordsman knows when to strike and when to defend. Your sword is not just for attack but for protecting yourself and those who rely on you. The best defense is a combination of agility, timing, and knowing when to yield. Remember, Alric, there is no shame in retreat if it means living to fight another day."

  After the session, Morgan looked skyward, his expression serious. "You’ve learned much, Alric. But the world beyond these woods is unforgiving. We must prepare not just for known dangers, but for the unexpected."

  As the dust settled on the ravaged battlefield, the smoldering ruins of the village painted a grim portrait of conquest. Fires still clawed at the remnants of what once were homes, casting long, eerie shadows as twilight approached. Amidst the chaos, a small figure stood defiantly, a young boy no older than a sapling, his hands tightly gripping a knife too big for his size. His eyes, filled with the storm of loss and anger, were fixed on one figure: Emeric.

  Emeric walked through the battlefield with the calm of a storm’s eye, his boots leaving imprints on the charred earth. His cloak billowed slightly with the wind, brushing against the debris-strewn ground. Pausing before the boy, he regarded him with a chilling curiosity, the faint light of the fires flickering in his cold eyes. "What do you plan to do with that knife, young one?"

  Emeric's voice was low and smooth, almost gentle, an unnerving contrast to the scene around them. The boy’s response was a fierce whisper, strengthened by memories of his lost family. "I’ll kill you! For my family, for my village!" Tears of grief and rage mingled on his dirt-streaked face, but his resolve did not waver. With a cry torn from the depths of his young heart, the boy lunged forward, his movements driven by desperation more than skill. The knife connected, a thin line of red blossoming on Emeric's arm-a superficial cut, but a cut nonetheless. Emeric looked down at the wound, then back at the boy, his expression unreadable. "No, no, child," Emeric began, his voice calm as he reached out to intercept the boys trembling hands. Emeric sighed, almost disappointed. With a flick of his wrist, he wrenched the knife from the boy’s grip, twisted it, and pressed it against his throat. He didn’t rush. He wanted the boy to feel it—the cold edge against his skin, the sharp realization that this was the end.

  "Lesson one," Emeric murmured, just for the boy to hear. "You aim for something vital."

  The knife slid cleanly across his throat.

  The boy staggered, eyes wide with shock, clutching at the wound as if he could hold the life inside him. He fell. By the time he hit the ground, he was already gone.

  Emeric wiped the blade clean on his cloak and turned to his men. "See to it he is remembered as a warrior who dared to strike." He looked at the others, their faces pale in the firelight. "Bravery without wisdom is just another form of foolishness..... Now someone stitch me up."

  As the soldier stitches his arm Emeric continues to oversee the cleanup of the battlefield, unaffected by the life he had just taken. "Every soul teacher a story, every drop of blood sheds a lesson. We are but scribes in the annals of power."

  The training grounds were a harsh tableau of dust and sweat, where the sun beat down relentlessly on the raw recruits. The air was thick with the sound of clashing metal as young men, torn from their former lives, were hammered into soldiers. Among them, Rylan stood out—not just for the shock of dark hair or the intensity of his gaze, but for the way his blade moved with a precision and grace that belied his rough training. Despite his obvious disdain for the camp's overlords, his combat skills were undeniably superior, honed perhaps by the sharp edge of his anger.

  With a standard-issue sword in hand, Rylan faced off against one of Emeric's seasoned trainers. A small crowd of other recruits and guards had gathered, their eyes fixed on him, a mix of resentment and awe shimmering in their gaze. Rylan's movements were fluid, almost effortless, each strike and block executed with a calm certainty that drew murmurs of approval from some and silent calculations from others.

  Emeric watched from a distance, his scar a grim slash across his weathered face. The boy's hatred for him was no secret, yet it was the kind of hatred that Emeric respected—the kind that forged stronger soldiers. "See how he fights, not just with skill but with purpose," Emeric muttered to a lieutenant at his side. "He could be useful. He learns quickly, not just the blade—a mind for warfare, perhaps."

  As the duel ended, Rylan’s opponent yielded, nursing a bruised ego more than anything. The crowd dispersed, leaving Rylan to wipe the sweat and dust from his brow. That’s when Emeric approached, his hands clapping in a slow, calculated rhythm.

  "Very impressive, Rylan," Emeric's voice was smooth, almost coaxing. He stopped a few feet away, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You fight well. You could fight even better with the right... encouragement."

  Rylan met his gaze, the loathing simmering just below the surface. "And what would that cost me?" he asked, his voice steady.

  Emeric’s smile was thin, knowing. "Let’s call it an investment in your future here," he said. "Loyalty is rewarded in my camp. I’m offering you a chance to rise above the rabble." Emeric smiled, a dangerous glint in his eye. "A better bunk, more food. Perhaps even command of your own unit, in time. All I ask is your complete loyalty. Show me that, and you'll find life here more... accommodating."

  Rylan considered the offer, his hand unconsciously rubbing the pommel of his worn sword. To accept might mean access to better resources, more information, even a potential pathway to undermine Emeric's operation from within.

  "Show me you’re worth the investment. Convince me," Emeric challenged, extending a new sword towards Rylan. It was a finely crafted blade, balanced and sharp, unlike the rough iron he was used to.

  The sword was perfect. Balanced, sharp, made for war.

  Rylan hated it. Hated the way it felt right in his grip. Hated that it came from Emeric’s hand.

  Hated how, for one horrible second, he felt... powerful.

  He met Emeric’s gaze as his fingers curled around the hilt. His stomach churned.

  "I'll do what I need to survive," he said, voice hollow.

  Emeric smiled, as if he had already won. "Good. Don’t disappoint me, boy."

  As Emeric walked away, Rylan tested the weight of the new sword, swinging it through the air. It felt right in his grip, dangerously so. He knew the path he was walking was perilous, but it was a path that might lead to power, or to ruin. For now, survival was the game, and he intended to play it well.

  His mind briefly wandered to Alric, wondering if his brother was safe and facing his own battles. This thought anchored him, reminding him why he must endure and grow stronger—not just to survive, but to hopefully reunite with Alric one day. With renewed resolve, Rylan focused on the immediate tasks at hand, the weight of the sword grounding him in the present yet filled with determination for what lay ahead.