The old oak grove lay a quarter-mile beyond Silverfang's northern border, a circle of ancient trees that had stood for centuries before the village was even founded. Local legends claimed the grove was sacred, a place where the spirits of the forest gathered to hold council under the open sky. Whether or not the legends were true, the grove possessed an undeniable sense of peaceful power that made it perfect for the kind of training Marcus had in mind.
Bete arrived shortly after sunrise, his regular training with Sergeant Borin having ended earlier than usual. He found Marcus already waiting, sitting in meditation beneath the largest oak with his sword laid across his knees. The morning mist still clung to the grove, creating an almost mystical atmosphere that made Bete feel as if he was entering a different world.
"Punctual," Marcus observed without opening his eyes. "Good. Punctuality shows respect—for your teacher, for your training, and for yourself."
Bete remained silent, unsure whether he should speak or wait for instruction. Something about Marcus's stillness suggested that interruption would be unwelcome.
After several more minutes, Marcus opened his eyes and rose to his feet with fluid grace. "Before we begin, I need to understand what you already know and what you're capable of. Show me the sword forms Sergeant Borin has taught you."
For the next half hour, Bete ran through every technique in his limited repertoire. Basic cuts, defensive positions, simple combinations—all the fundamentals that formed the foundation of Silverfang's military training. Marcus watched in silence, occasionally walking around Bete to observe from different angles, but offering no commentary or correction.
"Adequate," Marcus said when Bete finished. "Your form is technically correct, and you've clearly been practicing diligently. But you're fighting like you expect to face opponents exactly like yourself—same size, same speed, same training."
"Isn't that what sparring is for?" Bete asked. "Learning to fight other people?"
Marcus smiled, but there was something sad in the expression. "Sparring teaches you to fight other students. Combat teaches you to survive against enemies who want to kill you. There's a significant difference."
He drew his own sword—not the practice weapon Bete was familiar with, but a real blade of dark steel that seemed to drink in the morning light. The weapon was beautiful and terrible, its edge sharp enough to cut silk and its balance perfect enough to extend its wielder's reach like an extension of their own body.
"The first lesson I'm going to teach you is this: in real combat, nothing is fair. Your enemies will be bigger than you, stronger than you, better armed than you, or more numerous than you. Probably all of the above. Your survival will depend not on matching their advantages, but on exploiting their weaknesses."
Marcus moved to the center of the grove and gestured for Bete to join him. "Attack me. Use everything Sergeant Borin has taught you."
Bete hesitated. Even with a practice sword, attacking an adult felt wrong on multiple levels.
"I said attack me," Marcus repeated, his voice carrying the unmistakable authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
Swallowing his reservations, Bete raised his wooden sword and advanced cautiously. He chose a straightforward overhead strike—one of the first attacks he had learned and one he felt most confident executing.
Marcus sidestepped the attack so smoothly that he seemed to simply cease being where Bete's sword was aimed. Before Bete could recover, he found Marcus's blade resting gently against his throat.
"Dead," Marcus said matter-of-factly. "What went wrong?"
Bete thought for a moment. "I was too slow?"
"You telegraphed your intention. From the moment you decided to attack, your body language announced exactly what you planned to do and when you planned to do it. A experienced fighter could read your attack before you even began to move."
Marcus stepped back and sheathed his sword. "Try again. This time, don't think about what you're going to do. Just act."
The second attempt went no better than the first. Nor did the third, fourth, or fifth. Each time, Marcus avoided Bete's attack with minimal effort and positioned himself for a killing blow that never came. But with each failure, Marcus offered specific feedback—how Bete's eyes betrayed his target, how his grip changed before he struck, how his stance shifted in predictable ways.
"I'm not getting any better at this," Bete said after his tenth failed attack, frustration evident in his voice.
"You're getting better at recognizing your mistakes," Marcus corrected. "That's the first step toward fixing them. Most people go their entire lives without understanding what they're doing wrong."
"But I'm still not hitting you."
"Of course not. I've had thirty years to master these skills, and you've had thirty minutes. The question isn't whether you can defeat me today—it's whether you can learn to see the flaws in your own technique."
Marcus retrieved a water skin from his pack and offered it to Bete. "Rest for a moment. Then we'll try something different."
As Bete drank gratefully, Marcus began to speak about the theory behind combat. "Sergeant Borin is teaching you to fight honorably—clean techniques, proper form, respect for your opponent. Those are important lessons, and I don't want you to forget them. But honor is a luxury you can only afford when you're already strong enough to survive without it."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that if someone threatens your family, your first responsibility is to stop them, not to give them a fair fight. If an enemy has advantages in size or strength, you use speed and intelligence to level the playing field. If they expect you to follow the rules of formal combat, you surprise them by doing something unexpected."
Marcus picked up a fallen branch and snapped it into several pieces. "Traditional sword training teaches you to fight like this—" He held up one of the larger pieces. "Solid, straightforward, predictable. What I'm going to teach you is to fight like this—" He picked up several of the smaller pieces and showed how they could be woven together into a flexible, resilient whole.
"I don't understand."
"You will. Let's try a different exercise. Instead of attacking me directly, I want you to try to touch my shoulder with your hand. No sword, no rules about proper technique. Just find a way to touch my shoulder."
This proved even more challenging than the sword work. Marcus seemed to anticipate every approach Bete tried, always staying just out of reach while never seeming to exert any real effort. But gradually, Bete began to notice patterns in Marcus's movements, subtle preferences that guided his defensive choices.
On his fifteenth attempt, Bete tried something different. Instead of committing fully to a single approach, he began one movement and then switched to another mid-motion. For just an instant, Marcus seemed surprised by the change, and Bete managed to brush his fingertips against the man's shoulder before being effortlessly countered.
"Better," Marcus said with approval. "Much better. You're starting to think tactically instead of just technically."
They spent the rest of the morning on similar exercises—not formal sword techniques, but drills designed to develop Bete's ability to read opponents and adapt his strategy in real-time. It was exhausting work, both physically and mentally, but Bete felt himself improving with each repetition.
"Now," Marcus said as the session neared its end, "let's try something completely different. Have you ever studied magic?"
Bete shook his head. "Grandmother Elsa knows some healing techniques, but she says I'm too young to learn them safely."
"She's probably right about healing magic—it requires a delicate touch that develops with age and wisdom. But there are other forms of magic that might complement your combat training."
Marcus held out his hand palm-up, and Bete watched in fascination as a small flame appeared above his fingers. The fire danced and flickered as if it were alive, casting warmth and light that seemed far more substantial than its size would suggest.
"This is basic fire magic," Marcus explained. "Not powerful enough to seriously harm an opponent, but useful for creating distractions, providing light, or starting campfires. The principles behind it are simple enough that even children can master them with proper instruction."
"Could you teach me?"
"We can try. Fair warning, though—magic requires a different kind of discipline than swordwork. Some people have a natural aptitude for it, others struggle no matter how hard they practice."
Marcus guided Bete through the basic mental exercises required to sense and manipulate magical energy. It was unlike anything Bete had experienced before—trying to grasp something that existed but couldn't be touched, to shape something that had no physical form.
"Feel the energy that flows through all living things," Marcus instructed. "Don't try to grab it or force it. Just... invite it to work with you."
Bete closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to follow Marcus's guidance. He could sense something—a warm presence that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his heartbeat—but every time he tried to direct it toward his outstretched hand, it slipped away like water through his fingers.
"I can feel it," Bete said through gritted teeth, "but I can't control it."
"Control is the wrong word," Marcus corrected gently. "Magic isn't about domination. It's about partnership. The energy wants to be used—you just have to learn to work with it instead of against it."
They spent the better part of an hour on the exercise, with Bete managing to produce only the faintest wisps of warmth above his palm. By the end of the session, his head was pounding from the effort and his clothes were soaked with sweat.
"I'm terrible at this," Bete said, slumping against one of the oak trees.
"You're impatient," Marcus replied. "Magic requires a different mindset than physical combat. In sword work, effort translates directly into results—practice harder, get better. Magic is more subtle. Sometimes the harder you try, the more elusive it becomes."
"So I'll never be good at it?"
Marcus considered the question seriously. "You might develop basic competency with time and practice. But honestly? I don't think magic will ever be your greatest strength. Your talents lie elsewhere."
"Where?"
"In reading people. In adapting to unexpected situations. In the kind of determination that refuses to give up even when everything seems hopeless." Marcus stood and began gathering his equipment. "Those are rarer gifts than you might think, and potentially more valuable than any amount of magical power."
As they prepared to leave the grove, Marcus placed a hand on Bete's shoulder. "Today was just the beginning. Over the next few weeks, I'm going to push you harder than you've ever been pushed before. There will be times when you want to quit, when the training seems impossible or pointless. Are you prepared for that?"
Bete thought about his family, about the protective instincts that drove him to seek greater strength. "Yes, sir. I'm ready."
"We'll see," Marcus said with a slight smile. "Same time tomorrow. And Bete? Don't neglect your regular training with Sergeant Borin. What I'm teaching you builds on that foundation—it doesn't replace it."
As Bete walked home through the morning sunshine, his body ached and his mind buzzed with new concepts and possibilities. The magic lesson had been frustrating, but the combat training had shown him glimpses of skills he had never imagined existed.
For the first time since beginning his training, he felt like he was on a path that might actually lead to the kind of strength he sought—not just the ability to swing a sword competently, but the knowledge and skill to protect what mattered most, no matter what challenges he might face.
He had no way of knowing that Marcus had recognized something in him that went beyond mere potential—a combination of protective instinct and adaptable intelligence that, properly developed, could produce a warrior capable of incredible things.
Nor did he know that Marcus had his own reasons for taking such interest in a village boy's training, reasons rooted in regrets and failures that haunted the former adventurer's dreams.
For now, Bete was simply excited to continue learning, eager to discover what tomorrow's lesson might bring.