The boy stirred in his sleep as faint morning light filtered through the shutters. Outside, the village was waking slowly, the fjord catching the first light of day, its ripples carrying a quiet promise of calm before the day began. The sun climbed steadily, painting the rocky cliffs in warm hues of amber and gold. The village, nestled at the base of the towering landscape, hummed with life as families emerged from their homes, ready to greet the blessing of another peaceful day.
The boy awoke to the sound of his sister's laughter, her voice bright and carefree. It drifted through the open window, mingling with the calls of seabirds that wheeled overhead. He blinked sleep from his eyes, taking in the familiar sight of their small room—the woven blankets, the carved wooden figures his sister had lined up on the windowsill. He could hear the faint clatter of pots in the hearth room, where his mother was no doubt already busy.
Throwing off his blanket, he stretched and rose, padding barefoot across the cool wooden floor. Outside, the sun had begun its slow ascent, casting long, slanted shadows across the village. His sister was darting through the garden, chasing a butterfly with single-minded determination. Her golden hair glinted in the sunlight, and her small feet left faint impressions in the dewy grass.
"Are you going to sleep forever?" she teased, spotting him in the doorway. "Even the cows are awake before you!"
The boy scowled but couldn't suppress a grin. "The cows don't have to chase you all day," he retorted, stepping out into the fresh morning air. The coolness was invigorating, and he breathed deeply, savoring the mingled scents of earth and salt carried on the breeze.
Their mother appeared from behind the garden, a basket of herbs balanced on one hip. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hands dirtied from tending to the stubborn soil. "Good morning, lazy one," she said, her tone playful. "If you're done bantering, there's work to be done."
The boy groaned but dutifully joined her, taking the basket as she passed it to him. Together, they moved among the neat rows of the garden, checking for weeds and gathering what the soil had yielded. His mother worked with practiced ease, her fingers deftly plucking leaves and roots. She paused occasionally to instruct him, her voice patient.
"This one," she said, holding up a stalk of wild mint, "you must pull gently. If you tug too hard, you'll break the roots, and it won't grow back strong."
The boy nodded, imitating her movements. He glanced at her as she worked, noticing the way the morning light softened her features. She seemed unshakable, a pillar of calm and certainty. It was a comfort, though he didn't fully understand why.
Nearby, his sister flitted from plant to plant, her hands full of wildflowers she had picked from the edges of the garden. She hummed to herself as she arranged them in a crude bouquet, her concentration fierce. "I'm making something for Father," she announced suddenly, holding up her creation with pride.
"What does he need flowers for?" the boy asked, though he smiled despite himself.
"To remind him of home," she said simply. "In case he forgets."
Their mother's hands stilled for a moment, her gaze lifting to the horizon where the fjord stretched endlessly. The expression on her face was fleeting, too quick for the boy to interpret, but it left a faint unease in his chest. She shook her head slightly, as if dismissing a thought, and resumed her work.
By midday, the family gathered outside their cottage for the meal. The boy and his sister sat cross-legged on the grass while their mother laid out the food: roasted fish, crusty bread, and a bowl of wild greens. The boy's stomach growled at the sight, and he reached eagerly for a piece of bread, earning a mock scolding from his sister.
"Don't eat it all at once!" she said, shielding her plate as though he might steal it.
Their father appeared moments later, his heavy boots crunching on the gravel path as he approached. He carried a small barrel over one shoulder, his stride purposeful. Setting it down with a grunt, he dusted his hands and sat beside them, his presence grounding. The boy couldn't help but notice how his father's demeanor softened when he was with them, the hardness of a warrior melting away into something more human.
"You'll spoil them," his father said, gesturing to the spread of food. "A warrior's strength comes from simple fare." He caught the boy's eye and winked, a rare flicker of warmth breaking through his usual stoicism.
"And a mother's meal is meant to nourish," his mother replied, her tone light but firm.
The boy's father chuckled, conceding the point as he tore into a piece of bread. The conversation flowed easily as they ate, laughter weaving through their words. His sister recounted an elaborate tale of a fox she'd seen that morning, embellishing it with every detail her imagination could conjure. Even their father, usually so stoic, cracked a smile at her antics.
Afterward, his father rose and stretched, his gaze turning toward the forest at the edge of the village. "Come," he said to the boy. "There's still time for training before the sun dips."
The boy leapt to his feet, eager to follow. They moved to the clearing behind their home, where the grass was worn from countless sparring sessions. His father handed him a wooden sword, its weight familiar in his hands.
"Ready?" his father asked, taking a relaxed stance.
The boy nodded, raising his weapon.
"I'll go high, then low," his father said calmly, shifting his grip on the wooden blade. "Be ready."
The boy tensed, his eyes locked on his father's movements. His father swung high, a measured strike aimed at the boy's shoulder. The boy raised his blade to block, but before the clash had fully settled, his father stepped back and brought his blade low in a swift sweep toward the boy's leg.
The boy scrambled to react, his block coming a fraction too late. The wooden blade struck his shin with a dull crack, and he yelped, stumbling backward.
"You have to think ahead," his father said, stepping back to reset. "I told you exactly what I was going to do, and you still couldn't keep up. If you're caught off guard now, imagine how much harder it will be when you don't know what's coming."
The boy rubbed his shin, frowning. "But how do I know what they're going to do?"
His father's gaze was steady, patient. "You don't know. But you can guess. Watch their stance, their shoulders, their feet. Every movement gives away a plan. A good warrior learns to think two, three moves ahead. If you're only reacting, you're already losing."
The boy swallowed hard, nodding. "Okay. Let's try again."
His father raised his blade, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "This time, I'll go high, then feint low, and strike for your ribs. Be prepared."
The boy steadied his stance, gripping the wooden sword tightly. His father moved as he said he would—a high strike that the boy blocked, a feint low that made him falter, and a quick thrust toward his side. The boy tried to pivot, his blade coming up to intercept, but his father's strike landed lightly against his ribs.
"You hesitated," his father said, stepping back again. "You're thinking too much about the first move and not enough about the next. Anticipate, adjust, and commit to your defense. Let's go again."
They repeated the exercise, the boy growing more frustrated each time he failed to keep up. But with every pass, he began to read his father's movements a little more clearly. His blocks became sharper, his responses less delayed. He began to understand—defense wasn't just about stopping a strike. It was about seeing it coming before it was fully formed.
At last, his father stepped back, nodding. "Good," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "You're learning to anticipate. Now, let's see what you can do on the attack."
The boy adjusted his grip as his father squared off against him. This time, the boy lunged forward, his strikes wild but forceful. His father deflected each blow with ease, his movements fluid and precise.
"Too predictable," his father said, sidestepping a swing. "Think before you strike. You're not just swinging at me—you're trying to outmaneuver me. Make me guess where you're going next."
The boy hesitated, his grip tightening on the sword. He lunged again, aiming high, then pivoting to strike low. His father parried the blow with ease, the wooden blades meeting in a sharp crack.
"Better," his father said. "But you're still showing your intent. Watch again."
The blade came down in a deliberate arc, steady and precise. The boy lifted his own in defense, but his father's smooth redirection left his strike harmlessly astray. The elegance of the movement left the boy captivated, its simplicity masking its complexity.
"See how little force I used?" his father asked. "It's not about strength, but precision. The more you resist, the more you tire yourself out. Use their energy against them."
They continued, the boy adjusting his technique under his father's watchful eye. The clearing filled with the sharp crack of wooden blades and the rustle of feet against the grass. Sweat dripped down the boy's face, and his arms burned with the effort of holding his stance, but he pressed on, determined to impress.
At last, his father stepped back, lowering his sword. "Good," he said, a hint of pride in his voice. "You're learning to adapt. That's the first step to being a warrior."
The boy beamed, his exhaustion forgotten. He watched as his father paced a slow circle around him, the wooden sword resting lightly in his hand.
"A warrior's strength," his father said, his voice steady and low, "doesn't come from his arms or even his skill with a blade. It comes from here." He tapped his chest, just above his heart. "Strength comes from conviction—the will to stand when others fall, to keep fighting when everything tells you to surrender."
The boy tilted his head, frowning slightly. "How do you get conviction?"
His father's lips curved faintly, a shadow of a smile. "You find something worth protecting," he said. "A family. A home. Your people. And you hold onto that, no matter what stands against you."
The boy nodded, his chest swelling with determination. He raised his sword again, but his father lowered his own, signaling the end of the lesson.
"Keep honing your skills," his father said, "and remember: think ahead. A sword is only as strong as the mind and heart behind it."
As the afternoon faded into evening, the family gathered by the hearth. The fire crackled warmly, casting flickering shadows on the walls. His mother mended a tunic, her fingers working deftly, while his sister played with her carved figures. His father sat in his chair, sharpening a blade with slow, deliberate strokes.
The boy lay on the floor, his head propped on his arms, and listened to his mother tell one of her stories. This one was about Baldur, the beloved god whose death had nearly brought about the end of the world. Her voice rose and fell, weaving a spell that held them all captive.
As the story ended, his sister yawned and leaned against their mother, her eyelids drooping. The boy felt a deep contentment settle over him, the warmth of the fire and the closeness of his family filling him with a sense of peace.
But as the fire burned low, the boy sat cross-legged near the hearth, staring intently into the flames. The flickering light danced across his face as he closed his eyes, trying to feel it—the fire mana that Matteo spoke of, elusive yet tantalizingly close. He steadied his breathing, focusing on the warmth radiating from the embers, imagining the mana flowing around him, waiting to be grasped.
"Why are your eyes closed?" his mother's voice broke through his concentration, gentle but curious. "Are you tired? If you are, go to bed."
The boy's eyes snapped open, a flicker of frustration replaced by relief at the easy escape. "I guess I am," he said quickly, standing and brushing off his tunic.
His mother gave him a soft smile, her focus already returning to tidying up the room. He slipped away, climbing the narrow ladder to the loft that served as his room.
There, in the quiet sanctuary of his space, he relit the small oil lamp on the table. The soft glow illuminated the room in faint, warm hues. Blindfolded, he sat cross-legged on the floor, his hands resting lightly on his knees as he faced the flame. His breath slowed, his thoughts narrowing to the lamp's steady light.
The night passed in silence as he practiced, willing himself to feel the elusive connection Matteo had described. Every now and then, he thought he sensed it—a flicker of warmth, a subtle pulse—but it slipped away before he could grasp it fully.
By the time the first pale light of dawn crept into the room, his body was heavy with exhaustion. Still, he managed a small smile as he extinguished the lamp, feeling closer than ever to understanding the elusive energy. Curling up on his straw mattress, he let sleep take him, the promise of another day of training and discovery lingering in his thoughts.