Morning in the village never came softly. Light didn't creep in — it jabbed, thin and angry, through the shutters, white enough to sting the eyes when you first forced them open. Eiden groaned and dragged the blanket up to his chin, but the unmistakable clatter of his mother's ladle against the pot downstairs settled the matter: sleeping in was not an option.
"Eiden!" she called, warm and tired at the same time, the kind of voice families have after years of bumping into one another. "Up before the porridge gets cold! You know how your father hates soggy bits."
He rubbed his face, sighed, then swung his legs out of bed. The floorboards were colder than he remembered; the chill climbed up through his soles and made him shiver. His room was small — a cot, a desk cluttered with half-whittled sticks, and the wooden sword propped against the wall. His father had carved it when Eiden was ten, finally giving in after too many pleas for something "real." The tip was blunt now, polished smooth by afternoons of practice and pretend battles with things the village had never seen.
He dressed quickly — the same patched shirt that always smelled faintly of hay, the same dark trousers with the earned hole at the knee. Downstairs steam fogged the kitchen, carrying the earthy smell of oats and a faint tang from the neighbor's goat-milk. His mother was already setting bowls, hair piled in a hasty knot with a few determined strands loose.
She wasn't old, but the years had left soft creases at her eyes and mouth; they deepened when she smiled, folded into worry when she fretted — mostly about him. His father sat by the door, oiling a shovel and humming some tuneless soldier's ditty from before he'd traded campaigns for furrows.
"You're late," his father said without looking up, though there was a teasing spark in his eyes.
"I'm not," Eiden muttered, sliding into his chair with a theatrical huff.
"You are," his mother corrected, ladling porridge into his bowl. "Sun's been up a while. Dreaming of adventures again?"
He shrugged and spooned the thick mix — oats stretched with watered-down milk. Not fancy; comfortable, like a hand pressed against a cold night. Food was food; he didn't complain. Winters could bite, and gratitude had a quiet way of teaching a person to keep their mouth shut. Outside, the village woke: boots sloshing through mud, chickens squabbling over breakfast, the distant squeals of the baker's children as they chased one another. So familiar it sometimes felt like a fence around him.
His mother watched him eat with that private, knowing look. After a while she asked, as softly as steam rising, "You still thinking about leaving?"
Eiden froze, spoon half-lifted. The question hung there — light as smoke, as likely to choke you. "Maybe," he said.
"You've been saying 'maybe' for a year," his father put in, setting the shovel down with a clank. "You're fourteen. If you want to do something with yourself, now's the time. But it's more than swinging a sword — it's finding a path that won't break you."
He wanted a careful answer, something that sounded measured and thought-through. Instead the truth shoved out, raw: "What if I fail? What if I never come back?"
His mother reached across and squeezed his hand. Her palm was rough from work but gentle — the same one that'd bandaged scraped knees and smoothed his hair after nightmares. "Oh, Eiden. We're proud of you no matter what. But the cities… they aren't kind. You'd be better here, helping your father. We have enough, and we'd have you."
His father's face softened into that rare, patient smile — the one that always made Eiden feel seen. "No one's ever ready. The world won't wait for you to feel ready. Remember why you go: not just to matter to strangers, but to make us proud. And to come back stronger."
"I know," Eiden said, the edge in his voice cracking. "But I don't want to just live. I want to… matter. Protect people, like you did, Dad. Be part of something bigger."
The words felt small in his mouth, but they were his. All day he watched travelers moving through the village: soldiers in bright armor, traders with odd spices clinging to their cloaks, a mage once who passed by like a slice of night. They carried purpose. He wanted that heat too, even if it made his chest ache.
After breakfast he stepped into the crisp air. The village spread before him: twenty houses huddled together, a gossiping well, the church with its small bell, and the hills beyond — pale, endless, dotted with sheep. He headed for the old training yard on the edge of town where the guards sometimes practiced. He'd been sneaking out there for years, copying their swings with his wooden sword. Strength hadn't quite caught up with him, but stubbornness builds a sort of muscle all its own.
"Eiden! Hey, slowpoke!"
He turned. Lira came running, braid bouncing, cheeks pink. She lived two houses down, helped her father at the grain mill, and laughed like someone had lit a fuse. Sharp as a hammer — which made people love her; she said what everyone else only thought.
"You promised to help me carry flour today," she said, hands on hips, pretending to scold. Her eyes danced.
"I forgot," he admitted, scratching the back of his neck with a guilty grin.
"You always forget," she said, rolling her eyes. "Too busy dreaming of slaying dragons? You'd trip over your own feet."
He laughed — sudden and bright — and the knot in his chest eased. "I'd make a fine dragon-slayer. Charm it with my village wit."
Lira snorted and looped her arm through his. "Village wit? That's your name for terrible jokes?"
They traded small talk — the moody weather, the mayor's goat that liked to eat laundry, Lira's brothers bringing back silly trinkets from trading routes — until the mill swallowed the light and flour dust hung in the air. Lira's spark faded then, quieting like embers.
"You're still leaving, right?" she asked, voice small and suddenly afraid.
He nodded. "Tomorrow, maybe."
Her smile faltered; she crossed her arms to hide it. "Promise me something."
"What?"
"That you'll come back. Not as some stuck-up city knight who forgets where he's from."
Eiden blinked. "That it? You're not going to stop me?"
She punched his arm — light, but real — and her eyes shone. "Would it work? No. You're too stubborn. But don't come back a stranger. Come back for… for us."He pretended to be offended, rubbing the spot she'd hit. "Why would I be missing teeth?""You're terrible with a sword," she said, grin wobbling. "Remember last summer? You swung at a branch and smacked yourself in the face."
They both exploded laughing — the kind that makes your sides ache and pushes fear back for a while. With Lira he felt braver, less alone. They'd grown up skipping stones and carving promises into the willow's bark. She steadied him: stubbornness matched with stubbornness, turning ordinary days into something worth holding.
They hauled sacks until noon, teasing and swapping stories until weight and jokes felt the same thing. Later they sat by the river, legs dangling into water that numbed their toes and sharpened the air. Silence settled like an old coat. Still, the pull in his chest tugged at him — part of him had already walked away down the road.
"You really think you'll make it?" Lira asked, watching the current instead of him.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "But I have to try. I want to be someone who protects people. Maybe I'll join a knightly order, maybe serve a noble. Something that matters. Not stay here and slowly fade."
She turned then, her hand brushing his — accidental? maybe not. "You matter here, idiot. To your parents. To me." Her cheeks warmed; she looked away too quickly. "Don't forget where you came from. And write. Tell me about the cities, the mages… everything."
Warmth spread through him. "How could I forget? You keep me grounded. I'll write. Promise."
That evening the sky was flat and gold, the hills softened by gentle light. His parents sat on the porch — his mother mending a shirt, his father whittling a small bird. For a long, small moment he wondered if he was a fool to leave.
His father handed him a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Inside, the wooden sword gleamed, cleaned and oiled as if new.
"I guess you'll need this," his father said, voice rough but thick. "Not much, but it's from me."
Eiden stared. The sword felt heavier than wood in his hands. Tears pricked his eyes; he blinked them away. "It's not even sharp."
"Doesn't have to be." His father pulled him into a rare, gruff hug — back-slapping, awkward, but full. "Just remember why you hold it. Be safe, son. Make us proud."
His mother slid in beside them, arms tight.
"Come back to us. We love you more than you know."
That night, under a thin blanket, Eiden stared at the ceiling. Wind threaded through the shutters like a lonely song. His heart hammered — excitement braided with a raw, animal terror. The road called with both promise and danger. It scared him; maybe that was proof it mattered. He thought of Lira's laugh, of his parents' small, steady acts of care. Leaving meant risking everything; staying meant never knowing if he could be more.
Before sleep took him he whispered into the dark, "I'll make you proud. I'll come back."
For a long while, he believed he would.