The mornings in the hidden village always started the same: the ring of the bell, the smell of smoke from cooking fires, and the sound of feet rushing across the dirt paths.
Alaric hated it.
He trudged toward the training yard with his staff dragging behind him, yawning like he hadn't slept in days. His white hair was sticking out in every direction, golden eyes dull with sleep.
"This should be illegal," he muttered under his breath. "Children should be allowed to sleep until noon. Or forever."
Ashen walked beside him, silent as always. The pale butler-like coat he wore caught the morning light, his steps steady, posture perfect. His silver-gray eyes slid toward Alaric for a moment—just enough to make it clear he had heard every word.
Alaric made a face. "Don't look at me like that. You're undead. You don't get tired. Totally unfair."
Ashen didn't reply. He never did. But Alaric swore the pause in his gaze was louder than any words.
The training yard was already buzzing with noise when they arrived. Children were swinging wooden swords, running laps, or throwing practice spears. Kael stood at the center, arms crossed, his scarred face sharp and stern as always.
"Late," Kael said the second he spotted Alaric.
"I'm early," Alaric argued, stifling another yawn. "Early for tomorrow."
A ripple of laughter ran through the other kids. Ryn, standing off to the side with his wooden sword, smirked. "Don't worry, rabbit. You'll be crying by noon again."
Alaric groaned. "Can we not make that my nickname?"
Kael cut through the noise with a clap of his hands. "Quiet. Today, we begin endurance training."
Alaric's stomach dropped. "…Endurance? That sounds suspiciously like running."
"It is running," Kael said flatly. He pointed toward the path that circled the yard and stretched out into the woods. "Ten laps. Full circle."
The children groaned in unison, but none dared to argue.
Alaric, however, raised his hand. "Question. What happens if I die halfway through?"
"Then you run as a ghost," Kael said without missing a beat.
The kids laughed again. Alaric dropped his hand, glaring at his mentor. "…I'm starting to think you enjoy this."
"Run."
And so, they did.
The first lap wasn't too bad. Alaric even managed to keep pace with the others, his staff bouncing on his shoulder as his small legs pumped. His golden eyes lit with stubborn pride.
Ha! Look at me. Keeping up like a champ. Take that, world!
By the third lap, he was wheezing.
By the fifth, he was crawling.
"Ughhh… just leave me here… tell the world I died a hero…" He collapsed face-first into the dirt path, his white hair puffing dust into the air.
Ryn slowed down just enough to glance at him, smirking. "Giving up already?"
Alaric lifted his head weakly, dirt smeared across his cheek. "This isn't giving up. This is… conserving energy."
"Sure it is." Ryn sped back up, laughing as he passed.
Alaric groaned, rolling onto his back. The sky above looked so peaceful, the clouds drifting by like they had nowhere important to be. "Why can't training be like that? Slow. Relaxed. Napping included."
A shadow fell over him.
Ashen stood at the side of the path, arms folded, his silver eyes steady.
Alaric sighed. "You're not going to let me nap, are you?"
Ashen didn't move. He just watched.
Alaric groaned louder, dragging himself upright. "Fine, fine. I'm going. But only because you look scary when you stare."
He stumbled back onto the path, legs shaking, lungs burning. Each step felt heavier than the last. But every time he looked up, Ashen was there—watching, silent, steady.
Somehow, that was enough to keep him moving.
By the tenth lap, Alaric collapsed in the dirt yard, arms spread wide, chest heaving like he'd run across the entire forest.
"I hate this," he wheezed. "I hate you. I hate life. I hate—"
Kael dropped a bucket of water next to him.
Alaric blinked, then grabbed it and dunked his entire head inside. Cold water splashed everywhere. He came up gasping, hair plastered to his face, golden eyes gleaming weakly. "…Okay, maybe I don't hate you."
Kael's scar twitched, but his voice stayed firm. "You survived. That's what matters."
Alaric flopped back onto the dirt with a groan. "Barely."
But inside, under the complaints and aching limbs, a small spark flickered. He hadn't quit. He hadn't fallen behind.
Even if it was ugly, even if he felt like dying… he did it.
And that mattered.
The other children were still buzzing from the run, some sitting in the dirt, others splashing water on their faces. Alaric was flat on his back, gasping like a fish. His staff lay a few feet away, abandoned in the dirt.
"On your feet," Kael said.
Alaric didn't move. "…I'm dead. This is my ghost."
"On your feet," Kael repeated.
Alaric groaned, dragging himself upright. His legs shook like they might fold any second, but his golden eyes glared stubbornly up at the scarred warrior. "This has to be child abuse."
"You wanted to stay in this village," Kael said flatly. "Then you'll earn your place. Staff in hand."
Alaric staggered over, scooping up the staff with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. But I expect hazard pay."
Kael ignored him. He gestured toward the line of wooden dummies set up at the yard's edge. "Strikes. A hundred each. Steady. Controlled. No wild swings."
Alaric's jaw dropped. "A hundred? I just ran for a thousand years!"
"Then you'll last a hundred strikes."
The other kids, already catching their breath, exchanged glances. Some smirked, others looked almost sympathetic. Ryn leaned against a dummy, wiping sweat from his brow, a grin tugging at his lips. "Good luck, rabbit. Try not to collapse before fifty."
Alaric groaned louder. "You're enjoying this way too much."
But he stepped up anyway.
The first ten strikes weren't terrible. His arms moved almost on their own, staff smacking into the dummy with a satisfying thud.
By twenty, his shoulders burned.
By thirty, his grip was slipping. His thin frame trembled with every hit, white hair falling into his eyes as sweat dripped down his face.
Kael stood behind him, arms crossed. "Too sloppy. You're leaning too much on your arms. Use your whole body."
Alaric gasped between swings. "My whole… body… is already dying!"
"Then die standing."
Alaric whined, but he adjusted, planting his small feet more firmly. The next strike landed heavier, more balanced. His golden eyes widened slightly.
Oh… that actually worked.
The pain didn't stop, but the staff moved easier. He swung again, then again, each motion flowing smoother.
By fifty, his arms screamed. His breaths came ragged. But the staff kept rising and falling.
The crowd had gone quiet now, watching the small boy swing again and again, sweat flying, body trembling—but never stopping.
Ryn's smirk faded into something sharper. His green eyes followed every strike, lips pressed thin.
By seventy, Alaric's legs buckled. He dropped to one knee, chest heaving. His staff wobbled in his grip.
Kael's voice was sharp. "Stand."
Alaric grit his teeth. "I… can't…"
"You can."
Ashen had moved closer without a sound, his silver-gray eyes steady. He didn't speak—he never did—but his gaze pressed into Alaric's like an anchor.
The boy's heart thumped. His arms trembled. Every part of him screamed to stop.
But he rose.
He swung again.
Eighty.
Ninety.
His vision blurred, golden eyes unfocused. The staff slipped twice, nearly falling from his hands. His breath came in wheezes, his snow-white hair plastered to his flushed face.
But the strikes didn't stop.
Ninety-eight.
Ninety-nine.
"One more," Kael said.
Alaric let out a roar that was more squeak than anything and slammed the staff into the dummy with everything he had left. The sound echoed across the yard.
One hundred.
He collapsed instantly, flat on his stomach, face buried in the dirt. "I'm… done… bury me here…"
The children burst into laughter, but it wasn't mocking this time. Some clapped, others nodded in respect.
Even Ryn gave a crooked smile. "…Not bad, rabbit."
Kael stood over Alaric, his scarred face unreadable. "You're weak. But you didn't quit. That's a start."
Alaric groaned, not even lifting his head. "A start… to my funeral…"
Ashen crouched down silently, brushing dirt from Alaric's hair. His pale hands adjusted the boy's grip on the staff, then gently lifted him upright, steadying his trembling frame.
Alaric leaned against him without protest this time, his golden eyes half-shut but glowing faintly with pride. "…I… didn't quit…"
Ashen's silence carried the weight of agreement.
By evening, Alaric felt like his body had been hit by a cart. Twice.
He lay sprawled on the bedding inside the hut Ashen had set up for them, arms and legs stretched stiff as boards. His white hair stuck out in every direction, his small face pale with exhaustion. Even blinking felt like too much work.
"This is it," he croaked. "This is how I die. Overworked. No funeral, just dumped in the dirt like a potato."
Ashen knelt beside him, pale hands working with quiet precision. He dabbed a damp cloth across Alaric's forehead, wiped away dirt from his arms, and checked the bruises along his small wrists. His silver-gray eyes stayed calm, but the careful way his fingers moved—slow, deliberate, almost gentle—said what words never would.
Alaric peeked up at him through half-lidded eyes. "…You know, you don't have to fuss over me every time."
Ashen didn't answer. He only wrung out the cloth, cooling it again before pressing it to Alaric's cheek.
The boy huffed softly. "…Yeah. I know. You're not gonna stop." His golden eyes softened, the usual sarcasm slipping away for a moment. "…Thanks."
Silence filled the hut, broken only by the drip of water and the faint chirp of insects outside.
Later, when Alaric dragged himself outside for fresh air, he found Ryn leaning against the fence near the training yard. The older boy's wooden sword rested on his shoulder, his green eyes glinting faintly in the dusk.
"You look half-dead," Ryn said, smirking.
Alaric groaned, clutching his staff like a crutch. "Half? Feels more like three-quarters."
Ryn chuckled, but it wasn't cruel. He eyed the bandages around Alaric's wrists, then looked away, almost awkward. "…You held out longer than I thought you would."
Alaric tilted his head, golden eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Wait. Was that a compliment? Are you sick?"
Ryn scowled. "Don't get used to it. You're still reckless. Swinging like a madman until your arms give out isn't skill."
"Yeah, well," Alaric said, dragging himself onto the fence beside him, "nearly beating you twice wasn't luck either."
Ryn shot him a sharp look, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "…Maybe not."
For a moment, they sat in silence, the evening breeze ruffling their hair. Villagers passed by with baskets and tools, sparing curious glances at the odd pair—one their own, the other still whispered about as cursed.
Alaric leaned back, yawning. "You know… I don't hate training with you. Don't tell anyone I said that, though. It'd ruin my reputation."
Ryn snorted. "What reputation? Everyone already thinks you're a lazy brat."
Alaric smirked, eyes closing. "Exactly. Let's keep it that way."
Ryn rolled his eyes, but a faint smile lingered on his face.
Back in the hut, Ashen was waiting, silent as always. His silver-gray eyes flicked between the two boys before settling on Alaric, who trudged back in and dropped onto the bedding like a sack of grain.
"Training's gonna kill me," Alaric groaned into his pillow. "…But… maybe it's not the worst way to go."
Ashen adjusted the blanket over him, movements steady, precise.
Alaric's golden eyes cracked open, catching that brief, almost human care. He smiled faintly before sleep tugged him under. "…Not alone this time…"
The candlelight flickered against the walls, casting long shadows. Ashen sat near the bedding, sword resting across his knees, watching over the boy as the village settled into quiet.
Outside, the night deepened, the forest humming faintly beyond the walls. And in the stillness, Alaric's bond with both his rival and his guardian had grown—messy, stubborn, but real.