Firion opened his eyes before the church bell even considered breaking the silence.
Not a bird stirred. No rooster crowed. The sky was still drowning in pre-dawn blue. Most people would've rolled over and gone back to sleep.
Not him.
He grinned in the dark, teeth bright in the mirror across the room.Perfect timing. The world's still asleep. Which means… I win.
He threw off the covers and jumped to his feet, landing with a muffled thump. His unruly, dark blue hair looked like it had been attacked by a small storm in the night. He didn't bother fixing it. His hands went straight to his light training tunic, wrestling with it like it was trying to fight back.
"Inside-out again. Ugh. Every morning's a boss fight."
By the time he got the thing on correctly, he was already bouncing on his toes. He glanced at the old mirror again, narrowed his amber eyes.
"Serious look… no, too serious. Okay, confident-but-mysterious. Like a future swordmaster."
The door creaked open.
The hallway was quiet. His parents' door? Already ajar.
They beat me again? Impossible. They must cheat.
He slipped down the wooden stairs two steps at a time, his bare feet smacking the wood like impatient drums. The scent of warm bread and boiled milk hit him mid-descent. He sniffed the air with reverence.
"Divine. Today's going to be great."
In the living room, his mother sat near the tall glass windows, a soft woven blanket over her knees, baby Alice cradled against her chest. She looked up as he burst in, not startled, not surprised, just mildly amused. Her long auburn hair was braided loosely, falling over her shoulder like a lazy river of copper.
"You're up early" she said with a knowing smile.
Firion pointed at her like he'd just caught her in a trap.
"Don't act calm! You weren't supposed to wake up before me!"
Alice stirred in her arms, her tiny face wrinkling like she disagreed with the outrage.
Firion leaned in, kissed her forehead gently.
"Hi, little menace. Planning to conquer the house today?"
"She was sleeping peacefully until a certain someone came stomping down the stairs like a warbeast."
"I was light-footed! Trained for stealth! You just have very sharp mom-ears."
She chuckled and kissed the top of his head.
"Have you eaten?"
He held up his hand as if deflecting the question with a sword.
"Not yet. If I eat, I'll slow down. Stomach weight ruins footwork. Old swordmaster wisdom."
She squinted at him. "Your swordmaster wisdom gave you stomach cramps last week."
"That was a strategic miscalculation."
"Of course."
He peered down at Alice, who blinked up at him with unfocused eyes.
"When she grows up, I'll already be famous. She'll be like, 'That's my brother!'"
"She'll be like, 'Why does he talk to himself so much?'"
"Don't ruin the moment."
He turned toward the door. His mother grabbed the back of his tunic.
"Don't forget your wooden sword."
Firion froze.
"I was testing your memory. You passed."
He darted to the weapon rack by the door, snatched his practice sword, and dashed outside.
The morning air hit him like a splash of cold water. The grass was still soaked in dew. The silver-leafed trees lining their garden shimmered faintly in the low light.
And in the center of the field stood his father.
Shirtless, calm, and already mid-practice. His broad shoulders flexed with each movement, his back covered in thin, pale scars that caught the light. His own wooden sword, longer, heavier, more scarred, cut through the air in precise arcs.
Firion stopped, watching him with wide eyes.
Every morning. No matter what. How does he look cool doing the same three moves?
He crouched slightly, gripping his sword.
"DAWN ASSAULT, PHASE ONE!"
He charged.
The wooden swords clashed hard. His father barely glanced at him.
"Louder than yesterday."
"It's part of the technique!"
Firion pivoted, swung again. Blocked.
He jumped back. Came in low. His father turned and parried, smooth as water.
They moved in a slow, spiraling circle. One figure steady and controlled, the other explosive and unpredictable. Firion's feet skidded slightly on the grass.
"Didn't expect that one, huh?"
His father didn't answer.
But then, he took a step back.
Just one.
Firion froze.
"You moved! That was a step back! I pushed you! Did you all see that?!"
No answer. Only the wind.
His father smiled faintly.
"Focus."
The duel ended. Firion panted, grinning, cheeks flushed.
Then came the real work.
Running laps around the garden. Push-ups. Jumps. Pulls. Throws. Rolls. Firion obeyed every command, never slowing, never whining, not even when his arms trembled or his breath hitched.
Then, more sword work. Guard. Stance. Precision. His father corrected him silently, a tap on the wrist, a flick on the shoulder.
Time vanished.
When the church bell finally rang seven times, his father rested his sword on the rack.
"I'm heading out."
"I'll keep training" Firion said, wiping his forehead.
"Eat first."
He acquiesced.
A hand landed on his head. Strong, warm, firm.
"You're improving."
Firion blinked.
Then beamed.
He said it.
***
Firion slammed the door shut with the side of his arm, letting the morning breeze follow him into the house. He was soaked in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, shirt clinging to his back, but his grin remained steady.
"I lived!" he declared, arms raised like a champion. "You may applaud."
His mother didn't turn her head.
She was crouched near the hearth, bouncing Alice gently on one hip while stirring a pot with the other. The baby was babbling something between a war cry and a cough.
"That's your victory pose?" she said calmly. "I've seen wet laundry look more triumphant."
Firion kicked off his boots and dropped onto the bench with a dramatic sigh.
"I fought the old beast with everything I had. Nearly lost a leg."
"Again, that would be your father."
He reached across the table and stole a piece of bread from the basket, still warm.
"He started cheating. Moved faster than he should've. I think he's been training behind my back."
"Maybe he just remembers how to fight," she said.
Firion took a bite.
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm too fast for him now, and he's panicking. I mean, I was on fire this morning."
"You were wheezing."
"I was breathing with emphasis."
Alice gurgled louder, flapping her arms at him. Firion leaned over to meet her wide, curious eyes.
"See? She gets it. Right, little soldier? You saw me deflect that downward swing like a pro."
The baby yawned in his face.
"I'm choosing to take that as admiration," he said.
"She's choosing to ignore your nonsense."
Firion tore another piece of bread, dunked it into the honey.
"What's for breakfast?"
"What you see."
"I was hoping for roasted boar with honey glaze and fried eggs laid by golden hens."
"Dream again at lunch. For now, eat."
He was halfway through his second bowl when the back door opened with a soft creak. Firion looked up mid-bite.
His father stepped into the kitchen without a word.
He was already dressed for the hunt. Leather coat, bow slung across his back, short sword at his side, quiver strapped to his hip. His gloves hung from one belt loop, fingertips stained with use. He walked like someone who didn't need to look where he was going.
Firion watched as he crossed the room, tore off a strip of bread, and tucked it into his pack.
Then he crouched by Alice.
She stopped moving.
For a moment, she only looked at him with wide eyes. Then she reached out, curling her small fingers into the edge of his beard.
He let her.
Then he leaned in, gently kissed her forehead, and stood.
His hand came down, briefly, on Firion's shoulder.
"I'll be back before nightfall."
Firion looked up.
"You going north?"
A nod.
"Alone?"
"No."
"Wolves?"
"Maybe."
It was always like this. Short questions, shorter answers. Not because his father was cold, but because he saved his words like arrows.
He turned to his wife, gave her a look that said everything, then stepped out without ceremony.
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
Firion stared at it for a moment.
"He always leaves like that."
"He always comes back the same way," his mother replied.
Firion finished his meal, cleaned the bowl without needing to be asked, slung his satchel over one shoulder, and ran his hands through his still-damp hair.
"I'll try not to win the entire class again," he said, walking backwards toward the door.
"Try to stay awake this time."
"I only closed one eye."
"Because the other was watching Meri's notes."
"That's called strategy."
Alice let out a high-pitched yelp behind him, and he blew her a kiss.
"Keep training. I'll need backup tomorrow."
The walk to school took less than ten minutes, but Firion stretched it out with every excuse he could invent.
He stopped to help an old man carry a crate that was too heavy for him, but he pretended. He greeted every dog like it was royalty. He tried to balance on a garden wall and nearly fell off.
By the time he reached the schoolyard, the first bell was already ringing.
The building stood like a tired but stubborn watchtower. Gray stone walls stained by rain and time. A dozen kids running in all directions, some laughing, some groaning about the upcoming test.
Firion pushed the door open with one shoulder and stepped into the classroom for the thirteen-year-olds.
Wooden desks. High windows. The faint smell of ink, dust, and whatever stew had spilled into someone's bag.
"Sit," said Master Elarn from the front.
A tall, bony man with a crow's patience and a soldier's voice, Elarn had taught generations of village kids how to write, read, and remember things they didn't care about.
Firion slipped into his seat beside Meri, who was already scribbling in the margins of her notebook.
"You're late," she whispered.
"I'm always fashionably delayed."
"You smell like leaves and sweat."
"It's called nature's cologne."
The morning lessons began.
History first. The War of Three Keys. Treaties broken. Cities burned. Betrayals with names too long to care about.
Firion doodled an upside-down tower in his notebook.
Then Language. Imperial grammar, formal conjugations, the proper form of address when writing to a Grand Duke.
Then Mathematics. Ratios for trade carts and bridge supports. Firion stared at the board until the numbers blurred into a face.
And finally, Arts.
Master Elarn passed around paper and charcoal.
"Draw a moment," he said, "not an object. A memory."
Firion hesitated.
Then his hand moved.
He drew the garden.His father, shirtless, sword raised. Morning fog curling around him like smoke.One boot planted forward. One eye squinting at the invisible enemy.
Firion did not say a word when he finished.
He just stared at the image.
At noon, the bell rang.
Chairs scraped. Bags slammed shut. Voices burst into the air like birds from a cage.
Firion left quickly, walking home through the quietest streets he knew.
The house smelled of herbs and oil. His mother had already set lunch. A plate of fried greens, soft cheese, and a boiled egg with cracked salt.
They ate without much noise.
Alice was asleep.
"Are you going to Jhin now?" she asked as she cleared the table.
Firion nodded.
"He said we'd try something different today. A mask that lies while looking straight at you."
His mother gave him a sideways glance.
"And you're still going?"
Firion grinned.
"Of course. That's why it's interesting."
She didn't stop him.
She rarely did.
He washed his hands, changed into a lighter tunic, and tied his sketchbook under one arm.
Outside, the sun was no longer gentle.The wind was calm.The day felt like something unfinished.
Firion walked alone through the edge of the village, toward the house that looked out of place no matter the hour.
Toward Jhin.