Joren Fallow woke up to the sound of chickens screaming.
Technically, they were clucking, but Joren was convinced that if chickens had language, they'd spend most of their lives yelling about absolutely nothing.
> "They're just loud feathered idiots," he muttered, rolling over.
From the other side of the room came a muffled groan. Valerie sat up, hair like a nest of twigs, scowling at the world with the authority of someone who'd already decided today was a personal offense.
> "Your turn," she grumbled.
> "It was my turn yesterday."
> "Yesterday you lost the basket and chased a rooster with a broom. That doesn't count."
She had a point, unfortunately.
Joren sighed, pushed the blanket off, and dropped his feet onto the cold floorboards. The fire downstairs had burned out hours ago, leaving only the weak morning light seeping through the shutters.
Cold. Very cold, he thought, as his feet met the stone floor of the house he'd lived in all his life.
Another day. Another chicken chase.
He trudged down the stairs, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm—every step sounding more like a complaint than a footfall. Pulling on his clothes and stretching out his still-tired limbs, he yawned.
---
The Fallow farm sat on the outer rim of a village most maps forgot.
Not quite important enough for trade, too far from the main roads for soldiers to bother with, and just inconvenient enough that bandits gave it a pass.
Maren called it "peaceful."
Joren called it "adequately boring."
He fed the chickens, tossed grain at a goose that absolutely had it out for him, and checked on the fences that didn't actually keep anything in or out—but made the grown-ups feel better. Then came the goats, the well pump, and arguing with Valerie about who got more toast.
Standard village drama.
Still, the air smelled of damp grass and firewood, and the sun had decided to grace them for once. Joren tilted his head up, soaking in the warmth.
Then came the voices.
---
A pair of older boys stood near the pasture gate, arms crossed, faces serious in the way only ten-year-olds with something to prove could manage.
> "My uncle said he fought an Aura Knight once," said the taller one, Klem. "Split a tree in half with his bare hands."
> "You're thinking of mages," muttered the other. "Aura Knights use swords, not their hands."
> "Same thing. He split the tree in half."
> "No, it's not. One glows blue. The other just... stares until you're dead."
Joren leaned against a post, amused.
He knew those two—Klem and Jon. Wannabe warriors who hadn't figured out which end of a sword to hold yet. Every week, they had a new story about mercenaries, monsters, or magic—usually wrong, but always entertaining.
> "What are you looking at, farm boy?" Klem snapped, noticing him.
> "Two experts in misinformation," Joren replied dryly. "A rare breed."
Jon squinted. "Aren't you the farmer boy who fell off the pasture wall?"
> "Intentionally," Joren said, straight-faced.
They stared.
> "You wouldn't understand."
Then he turned and walked off—because that's what mysterious people did in stories. They said something cryptic and then left.
In truth, his boot was full of mud, and he really didn't want them to see him limp again.
---
Maren ran the small herb stall near the village square. People came to her for tea leaves, poultices, and strong opinions on the mayor's latest mistakes.
Today, the square buzzed with market talk—fishermen bartering, children weaving between carts, and the occasional trader passing through.
Joren helped her unpack jars and didn't ask questions when she paid a merchant extra to "not mention the southern roads."
Something had happened. Again.
Another fire? A raid? Rumors of wild mages?
He wanted to ask, but Maren gave him the look—the one that said "not in front of Valerie" even if Valerie wasn't technically there.
So he stayed quiet.
But he watched.
---
That afternoon, while Valerie was off chasing her own conspiracy theories (this week: squirrels were spies), Joren climbed the stone wall again.
It wasn't tall—just old, cracked, and slightly too high for a child to fall off without consequence.
He sat at the top, chewing a long blade of grass and staring out across the fields. The sun shimmered against the hills, far beyond where the goats grazed, where the land turned strange and steep.
There, somewhere, lay the cities he'd read about. Places with towers that touched the clouds. With swordsmen who could split mountains. Queens who drank from golden chalices just to feel something.
> "And here I am," he muttered, "getting yelled at by poultry."
Still, he liked the quiet.
For all the village's simplicity, there was something peaceful in the way the wind moved here. The way the clouds rolled lazily across the sky, as if the gods had time to waste.
In the distance he could hear them—fathers and sons training with their wooden swords. The rhythmic clacking each time one struck and the other blocked.
He always wished to be a swordsman. Though he knew from experience he wouldn't be any good—his movements were too wide, his arms too slow, and worst of all, his footwork was awful. Like he couldn't coordinate his feet whenever he swung his "sword."
But he didn't want to give up his dream just yet.
Laying there on the wall, he did nothing but listen... and stare at the stars that were slowly appearing in the sky.
Then something caught his eye.
---
At the far edge of the hill—just before the tree line—stood a figure.
Tall. Still. A long object strapped to their back.
They didn't move. Not even when the wind shifted. Just watched.
Joren squinted. Blinked.
Gone.
> "You're seeing things," he told himself. "Like Valerie and her spy squirrels."
But he still climbed down carefully.
And didn't mention it at dinner.
---
That night, while Corin carved wood in the corner and Maren cleaned the jars, Joren brought it up casually.
> "Do people still train with swords?"
Corin grunted. "Some do. Mostly for show these days. Or for war, if they're unlucky."
> "What about here?"
> "Not much need."
Joren poked at his stew. "But there's an exam, right? I heard some boys talking."
Maren glanced up. "There's a swordsmanship trial held every few years. Examiners travel here from the capital. Not often though."
> "Who can take it?" Joren asked, clenching his fists on either side of the bowl.
> "Anyone old enough to hold a blade and foolish enough to try," Corin muttered.
Maren gave him a look, then softened.
> "Some boys your age dream of it. They'll train. Play with sticks. I think it's sweet."
> "Even if they fail?" His voice was quiet. Unsure.
> "Especially if they fail," she said. "Dreams aren't always about passing."
Joren nodded slowly.
And didn't say anything else.
But that night, as he lay beneath the thin blanket and listened to the rain tap on the shutters, he imagined himself standing at the edge of a field, sword in hand, facing something vast and terrifying.
And not running.
Even if he was the only one left standing.