Morning light spilled over the training yard, bright enough to sting Alaric's eyes. He yawned loudly, leaning on his staff like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His snow-white hair stuck out in messy tufts, the kind of bedhead that looked less like "battle ready" and more like "just rolled out of a haystack." His golden eyes were half-lidded, still dulled by sleep, and his small frame looked like it would rather be wrapped in a blanket than armor. His clothes were simple: a loose tunic the villagers had stitched for him, slightly too big at the sleeves, and trousers tied with rope at the waist.
"Honestly," he muttered under his breath, dragging his staff across the dirt, "this whole 'early morning training' thing is an actual crime. Kael should be arrested."
Nearby, Ryn stood in sharp contrast. His dark hair was cut short and neat, framing a face that already carried more confidence than his years should allow. His green eyes were sharp, awake, and he gripped his wooden sword with practiced ease. His tunic was clean, tightened properly at the waist, and he held himself with the posture of someone determined not to be underestimated.
He looked like a warrior-in-training. Alaric looked like he'd lost a fight with his bed.
"Try not to embarrass yourself today," Ryn said, voice carrying that same edge of superiority.
Alaric rubbed his eye with one fist and smirked. "Embarrass myself? Please. I'm planning on embarrassing you instead. Big difference."
Ryn's brow twitched.
Before the bickering could escalate, Kael's voice boomed across the yard. "Line up!"
The children scrambled into rows, wooden weapons in hand. Kael strode to the center, arms crossed. His stern eyes swept across them before landing squarely on Alaric, who yawned again.
"We're doing team combat today," Kael said, tone flat but firm. "Two against two. You'll learn how to fight alongside someone else, because if you can't trust the one next to you, you won't last against what's out there."
Alaric tilted his head. "Teamwork, huh? Sounds like a lot of work."
Ryn muttered, "You don't know the meaning of work."
Alaric grinned. "Oh, I do. I just avoid it whenever possible."
Kael ignored them—or maybe he just refused to dignify their nonsense with a response. "Alaric. Ryn. You're together."
Both boys froze.
"What?" they said at the same time.
Alaric pointed at Ryn, horrified. "With him? You're pairing me with Mister Sword-Swing-Too-Much?"
Ryn jabbed a finger right back. "I refuse to fight alongside this lazy brat!"
Kael raised one eyebrow. "Refuse?"
Silence. Both swallowed their protests.
Alaric slumped in defeat. "…This is favoritism. Against me."
"Shut up," Ryn hissed.
Kael turned to the rest of the group and began pairing them off. By the time he was done, Alaric and Ryn stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the yard, glaring at each other like cats forced into the same basket.
The first match was called, another pair of children stepping into the circle to spar. Alaric leaned on his staff, eyes drifting shut as if he could nap standing up.
"You'd better not drag me down," Ryn muttered.
Alaric cracked one golden eye open, smirk tugging at his lips. "Drag you down? Please. I'll carry us both… in spirit. You know, like moral support."
Ryn pinched the bridge of his nose. "…This is going to be a disaster."
Alaric stifled another yawn. "Nah. Disaster implies effort. This'll just be… messy."
And when Kael finally called their names, both boys stepped forward—reluctant partners about to be tested.
The training yard cleared as their opponents stepped forward—two older boys, both taller than Alaric and Ryn by at least a head. One had a wooden spear, the other a heavy-looking club.
Alaric's golden eyes widened. "Wait, wait, wait. Isn't this bullying? We're like… snack size compared to them."
Ryn tightened his grip on his wooden sword. "Stop whining."
"Whining? No, this is called 'valid protest.'"
Kael's voice cut through their exchange. "Begin."
The two opponents didn't hesitate. The spear thrust forward with speed that made the air whistle, aimed straight at Ryn. The club followed right behind, raised high to slam down on Alaric.
Alaric yelped, stumbling sideways. "Whoa! Hey, watch the head! It's my only good feature!"
The club smashed into the dirt where he'd been standing, sending dust flying.
Meanwhile, Ryn's sword clashed against the spear, wood scraping wood. His arms strained as he shoved it aside and countered with a slash that forced the spearman to back off.
Alaric clutched his staff, glaring at his opponent. "Okay. No more Mr. Nice Baby." He raised the staff and swung—not elegantly, not even correctly, but with enough desperation that the club-wielder had to step back or risk his shin being cracked.
"Your form is awful!" Ryn shouted between clashes.
"My form is creative," Alaric shot back. He jabbed the staff forward, aiming low, then smirked when it connected with the boy's ankle.
The club-wielder staggered. "Ow!"
"Ha! See? Creativity wins!" Alaric said, pumping a tiny fist.
"Focus!" Ryn barked, parrying another spear thrust.
Alaric grumbled but darted forward again, his small frame surprisingly nimble as he poked and jabbed with his staff. It wasn't polished, but it kept the club busy—and off Ryn's back.
The fight grew faster. Dust kicked up as wooden weapons cracked together, sweat glinting on foreheads. The spear boy pressed Ryn hard, forcing him to block and dodge nonstop. Every now and then, Alaric's wild swings caught the spear's shaft, giving Ryn a breath of relief.
"Are you actually helping?" Ryn asked through gritted teeth.
"Teamwork, baby!" Alaric grinned, breathless.
A club swing came dangerously close, grazing Alaric's shoulder. He winced, teeth clenched. "Ow—okay, that's gonna bruise. Totally unfair. I'm suing."
Ryn rolled his eyes but took advantage of the distraction. He shoved the spear aside and drove his wooden sword into the boy's gut. The spearman stumbled back, gasping.
That left Alaric with his opponent.
The club came down again, heavy and merciless. Alaric barely managed to twist aside, the weapon slamming against the dirt with a loud thunk. He jabbed his staff forward, catching the boy in the ribs.
"Oof!"
The boy staggered, but didn't fall. His eyes narrowed, anger flashing. He raised the club high, ready to finish it in one blow.
Alaric's golden eyes widened. His arms trembled, body too weak to properly block.
But before the strike could land, Ryn stepped in. His sword slammed against the club's shaft, halting it mid-swing.
"Don't space out!" Ryn snapped, shoving the weapon away.
Alaric blinked, then grinned weakly. "Aw, you do care."
"Shut up and hit him!"
Together, they struck—Ryn with a clean slash to the torso, Alaric with a jab to the stomach. The club-wielder fell back, coughing.
Kael's voice rang out, calm but firm. "Enough."
The yard fell silent. Both opponents stepped back, defeated.
Alaric collapsed onto the dirt, panting heavily. His staff clattered beside him. "Victory… tastes like dirt."
Ryn stood tall, chest heaving, sword still in hand. He looked down at Alaric, a mixture of irritation and reluctant respect on his face. "…You didn't completely drag me down."
Alaric smirked up at him. "And you didn't hog all the glory. Progress."
Ryn shook his head, but a faint smile tugged at his lips.
Kael approached, his expression unreadable. His gaze swept over both boys before he gave a single nod. "You fought together. Rough. Sloppy. But effective. You'll do better next time."
Alaric groaned, rolling onto his back. "There's gonna be a next time?"
"Yes," Kael said simply.
Alaric threw his arm over his eyes. "…Truly, my suffering never ends."
Ryn snorted, but he didn't argue. For the first time, standing beside Alaric didn't feel like a punishment.
It felt like the start of something else.
By the time the dust settled, the training yard had returned to its usual chatter. The other kids whispered about the match—some impressed, others laughing at Alaric's awkward swings and dramatic groans.
Kael dismissed the group one by one, giving each a short word of advice. When his eyes landed on Alaric and Ryn, both still lingering near the circle, his tone sharpened.
"Ryn. You rely too much on force. You press forward without thinking of your partner. That's why your back was wide open twice."
Ryn's jaw clenched, but he bowed his head. "…Yes, sir."
Kael's gaze shifted to Alaric. The boy was slouched on the ground, poking at the dirt with his staff like he was digging for treasure.
"And you," Kael said.
Alaric looked up with golden eyes half-lidded. "Oh no. Here it comes."
"You have spirit," Kael continued, "but no control. Your attacks are reckless, and you leave yourself vulnerable. You survived because Ryn covered you. If you keep fighting like that, you'll be the first one to die."
The words were blunt, cold, but not cruel.
Alaric froze for a moment, the weight of that last sentence sinking into his chest.
Then he sighed dramatically, flopping onto his back. "Well, that's depressing. Thanks for the pep talk, coach."
Kael's brow furrowed. "…You need to decide. If you want to live, learn discipline. Otherwise, you'll drag others down with you."
Alaric stared up at the sky, watching the clouds drift past. His lips quirked into a faint smirk, but his eyes carried something heavier. "…Guess I'll just have to figure it out, huh?"
Kael didn't answer. He turned on his heel, leaving them both with the sting of his words.
Ryn lingered a while longer, shifting awkwardly. He looked down at Alaric, who was still sprawled across the dirt like a discarded rag doll.
"…He's right, you know," Ryn muttered.
"Yeah, yeah," Alaric groaned, waving a hand lazily. "Don't rub it in."
Ryn crossed his arms, but instead of another jab, he muttered, "…You did better than I thought."
Alaric blinked, surprised, then grinned. "Two compliments in one day? Careful, your face might break."
"Shut up."
Despite his words, Ryn's lips twitched faintly before he stalked off toward the well.
Alaric lay there for a moment longer, the echoes of the fight replaying in his head. Kael's warning, Ryn's begrudging respect, the rush of danger—it all churned together until he didn't know if he wanted to laugh or cry.
His body ached too much to decide anyway.
That evening, Ashen tended to him as always. The pale figure knelt beside the bedding inside their hut, carefully unwrapping the cloth around Alaric's wrist. His silver-gray eyes lingered on the faint bruise beneath, a shadow flickering through his usually calm gaze.
"You know," Alaric mumbled, his voice muffled by the pillow, "if you're this worried every time I get a bruise, you're gonna run out of sleeves to tear up for bandages."
Ashen didn't respond. His hands moved with precise care, pressing a cool cloth to the tender skin. His touch was steady, deliberate—but softer than steel should have been.
Alaric peeked at him, golden eyes half-open. "…You don't have to, you know. I can handle it."
The silence stretched. Ashen's pale hands paused for just a moment before continuing.
Alaric sighed and let his eyes close again. "…But I don't mind. Not when it's you."
The words slipped out, quiet, almost careless.
Ashen's hand stilled, his expression unreadable. For the faintest moment, his silver eyes softened before the mask of calm returned.
He adjusted the blanket over Alaric's shoulders, smoothing it into place with the same deliberate care.
Alaric yawned, sinking deeper into the bedding. "…See? Best zombie nanny ever." His lips curved faintly, even as sleep tugged him under. "…Don't go anywhere, alright?"
Ashen sat back, silent sentinel as always. The flicker of candlelight glinted off his pale features, casting long shadows against the hut's wooden walls.
Outside, the village buzzed faintly with evening life—voices fading, fires crackling, the forest humming beyond. Inside, only the sound of Alaric's steady breathing filled the space.
Ashen's gaze never left him. He didn't speak, but his silence carried weight—acceptance, protectiveness, something almost like emotion.
And in that stillness, boy and guardian both seemed bound tighter than before, the clash of the day fading into a fragile but certain bond.