Two days passed, and the village was slowly finding its footing. The tense quiet that had clung to the air after the attack was loosening. Where there had once been only silence and fear, now there was rhythm—axes chopping wood, hammers ringing over nails, voices calling as people rebuilt fences, mended roofs, and carried buckets of water. Life was not normal, not yet, but it was moving forward.
On the training grounds, the earth was scarred with footprints and divots from practice. The straw targets leaned wearily on their posts, battered by arrows and stones. The sun was dropping low in the sky, turning the grass gold, when General Lyra arrived for her inspection. She expected to find the field empty, the day's lessons long since ended.
But one figure remained.
Rory stood in the dirt, alone, his slingshot gripped tightly in his small hands. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and his face was set in an expression far older than his years. He pulled back the band, loosed a stone, and struck the center of a target with a sharp thock. His jaw clenched, and he prepared another shot.
"Rory," Lyra called.
The boy jerked at the sound, startled, then spun toward her.
"You're not tired yet?" Lyra asked, one brow lifting.
Rory shook his head. His grip on the slingshot tightened as he looked down at it, then back up at her with a seriousness that made him look almost like a soldier. "General," he said, his voice steady, "everything you told me was right. I guess I was too stubborn to listen."
He lifted the slingshot, not like a toy now, but like a weapon. His eyes shone with a hard, proud light. "I just took down an orc." His chest rose with the words.
Lyra's lips curved into the faintest smile. She crossed the field, stopping before him, and placed a steady hand on his head. "You did well."
Rory's proud expression softened into something more vulnerable. "Do you think my moms would be proud?" he asked quietly, almost shyly.
Lyra's gaze softened. "Of course they would."
For a moment, silence lay between them, filled only by the sound of the evening breeze moving through the trees. Rory looked away, swallowing hard, as if the thought of his mothers' pride was something both comforting and painful. Lyra let the quiet linger, then turned toward the treeline. She stood still for a moment, considering, then walked over and bent to the ground. When she returned, she carried a sturdy stick.
Rory blinked at it, frowning. "Huh?"
Lyra's mouth tugged into a small grin. "I'll be frank with you, Rory. You're brave. You've got potential. And since you've shown me you can learn, I'll teach you how to fight."
His eyes widened in disbelief. "Really?"
"Really," Lyra said. "But you'll do exactly as I say. And we'll start with this stick."
Excitement erupted across his face. He seized the stick with both hands, bouncing on his feet like he could barely contain the energy burning through him. "What should I do first, General? Should I—should I do this?"
Without waiting for her answer, Rory swung into a clumsy imitation of Lyra's battle movements. He slashed the stick in a wide arc, shuffled his feet in a half-pivot, then thrust forward. His arms wobbled under the stick's weight, his stance shifted too far apart, and his balance faltered. But his face glowed with fierce determination.
Lyra crossed her arms, watching silently until he finished. When he finally planted the stick back at his side, breathing hard, she stepped forward.
"Not bad," she said, surprising him with gentleness. "For a start."
His face lit up—until she reached down and repositioned his grip. Her fingers were firm but not unkind. "But the first lesson isn't about how you strike. It's about how you stand."
She nudged his feet closer together, shifted his weight forward, then squared his shoulders. "Your stance is your foundation. A strong stance is both shield and weapon. Without it, every strike will fail. Balance first. Always balance."
Rory straightened, focusing on the position she'd set him in. For the first time, he felt the stick heavy in his hands in a way that seemed real, like it was something that could break him if he lost his footing.
Lyra knelt, raising her own hand as if holding an invisible sword. She guided the motion slowly—up, then down, a clean cut. "Now, you will practice this. Fifty times. Every day." Her voice was calm, but there was iron in it.
Rory's face dropped. "That's it?"
"Yes." Lyra's eyes fixed on his. "Or do you not want to?"
"Ah—yes! I do!" Rory said quickly. He raised the stick above his head and began chopping downward. His movements were awkward, but there was no hesitation.
By the tenth swing, his hands ached. By the twentieth, sweat stung his eyes. His shoulders quivered, but he pushed through. Each downward cut felt heavier than the last, and yet his face hardened with determination.
"General," he asked between breaths, "when will I hold a real sword?"
"When I say you're ready," Lyra replied evenly.
"Aw…" Rory muttered, disappointment slipping through.
Lyra's gaze softened, though her tone stayed firm. "Rory, remember—anything can be a weapon. Even a stick."
He stopped mid-swing, her words hitting deeper than he expected. He remembered the sting of being told a slingshot was enough. He remembered his anger, his defiance. Now, with the stick trembling in his aching hands, he understood. Slowly, he nodded.
"I get it," he said quietly. "A weapon is only as good as the person holding it."
Lyra gave a small nod, pride flickering in her chest. "Exactly."
He gritted his teeth and swung again. And again. The stick cut through the air with a whoosh, his arms trembling, but his eyes locked onto hers with burning resolve.
Lyra stood back, watching. She saw a boy too young to carry the weight he demanded. She saw his stubbornness, his reckless fire. But she also saw something else—something rare. A will that would not break.
The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the field. Still, Rory swung. His breaths grew ragged, his small frame trembling with effort, but he refused to stop.
Lyra didn't tell him to.
She let him keep going until the last of the daylight had nearly faded, and only then did she step forward. She caught the stick as his tired arms faltered, steadying it with one hand.
"That's enough for today," she said softly.
Rory's chest heaved, sweat dripping down his brow, but his grin was wide and proud. "Did I… do good?"
Lyra's lips curved into the faintest smile. "You did better than good. You began."
And for the first time, Rory believed her.