Morning lay quiet over the town, the sun filtering through low-hanging clouds.
Kaizlan Valric stood by the well in the square, drawing up a bucket of water. The air was cool and clean, yet within him rested something heavier, more tempered than it had been four years ago.
Two boys passed nearby, whispering as they glanced his way:
"That's the son of House Valric."
"They say he went to the capital for only a short while… and came back stronger."
He smiled inwardly. No longer did he seek praise, nor shrink from notice. He simply set the bucket aside and carried on, as though the day itself were part of an endless training yet unfinished.
⸻
That evening, he sat with his father at a modest table: warm bread, roasted meat, and a small pot of stew.
Seyvald Valric studied his son, then spoke in a tone calm yet edged with firmness:
"Strength, Kaizlan, is not measured by the arm alone. It is measured when you choose whether to wield it—or to hold it back."
Kaizlan lowered his gaze briefly. It was an old lesson, but now, at nineteen, it carried a greater weight.
"I try to be ready," he said quietly, "not only for what I desire… but for what the road may demand of me."
His father gave a slow nod, without smile or scorn.
No excess of praise, no harshness. Only the balance known to sons raised in silence and labor.
⸻
Just before dusk, Kaizlan walked the edges of the fields. The earth was damp, the first heads of grain glistening with a light dew.
There he saw Deril, a bundle of wood on his shoulder. His face had grown older, a faint beard shadowing his jaw, yet his eyes remained the same.
They paused, trading a glance that carried the weight of a handshake.
Deril spoke with practical ease:
"You rise earlier than you used to."
Kaizlan replied:
"Too much sleep dulls the body."
Deril smiled faintly, offering no retort, then tilted his head toward the road.
"The way into town has grown busier. New merchants… and more guards at the gate."
Kaizlan made no comment. He recorded the detail inwardly, as a duelist might note the placement of his opponent's foot.
⸻
He returned home at nightfall. In his narrow room, he set his wooden practice sword upon the table and wrote two lines in the notebook whose pages were steadily filling:
"The boy no longer seeks to be seen.
Now he seeks to understand—people, roads, and the weight of a name."
He closed the notebook and snuffed the wick.
The house lay still, the town silent, yet within him stirred a movement that would not rest—the restlessness of one who knows that quiet is but a stage of preparation, not its end.