Date: November 15, 540, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The cold November morning burst into the hut through the cracks in the shutters, making Dur shiver under his rough woolen blanket. The smell of smoke from the hearth, dried meat, and old wood had become, over these weeks, the smell of home, safety, and harsh discipline for him. As always, he woke before Torm uttered his usual morning raspy call. The muscles in his legs and back burned with a pleasant fatigue from yesterday's exhausting bow training, and the fingers of his right hand, despite the calluses that had formed, were still numb from the tension of the string.
"Get ready," came the hunter's voice, already busy by the hearth. "Today we'll do something else. The bow is for distance. But in the forest, distance has a way of disappearing."
After a meager breakfast of oatmeal gruel and a cup of tart herbal tea, Torm walked over to a massive chest in the corner of the hut. Opening the creaking lid, he extracted a long, narrow object wrapped in oiled leather. Unwrapping it, he showed Dur a hunting knife.
It was neither beautiful nor elegant. It was a tool, created for work and survival. A blade the length of a man's palm with a thick spine and a gentle curve to the edge. A wooden handle, darkened by time and sweat, fit his palm as if made for it. The sheath of thick leather was simple and functional.
"This is no toy," Torm's voice was serious as never before. "And not just a piece of iron. It is an extension of your hand. Your last line of defense. Your support in daily life and in the hunt. Treat it with respect, and it will save your life. Treat it with disdain, and it will shorten it. The first thing you'll learn is to keep it ready."
Torm placed a sharpening stone, a small leather pouch with oil, and a rag on the rough wooden table. He sat down on a stool and gestured for Dur to do the same.
"Sharpening is a meditation," he began, dripping oil onto the stone. "You must hear the metal, feel it. You must find the right angle and hold it. Always. Don't change it a jot."
He took the knife and demonstrated a smooth, cyclic motion. The blade sang, sliding over the wet stone, emitting a steady, rustling sound. Torm did this with such ease and precision it seemed like magic.
"Try it. Thirty strokes on one side, thirty on the other. Slowly. Control every millimeter."
Dur took the knife. It was surprisingly well-balanced and comfortable in his hand. He tried to copy Torm's movement, but the blade kept slipping from the correct angle, making an unpleasant grating sound. After a few minutes, his wrist began to ache, and his concentration wavered.
"Don't fight it," came the calm voice of the mentor. "Guide it. Imagine you're running your finger along the edge of a leaf. Smoothly. Constantly."
Dur closed his eyes, trying to disconnect from the discomfort and focus on the tactile sensations. The roughness of the stone, the coolness of the metal, the slickness of the oil. He guided the blade again, and this time the sound was steadier. It was a tiny victory, but it made him smile.
More than an hour passed before Torm nodded in approval of his efforts. The blade gleamed with a smooth, sharp edge.
"Now I'll show you how to hold it," said the hunter.
He spent an entire lesson simply demonstrating various grips. The basic grip for work and chopping. The reverse grip for powerful thrusts. The grip for skinning. He made Dur repeat them over and over until his fingers began to remember the positions on their own.
"Drop the knife, and you're dead," Torm stated ruthlessly when Dur fumbled a transition again. "Your hand must be its extension. It shouldn't feel like a foreign object."
Then they went outside, to the massive stump that served Torm as a chopping block. The sun had risen higher, but the air was still cold and biting.
"The power is in your body, not your hand," the hunter explained. "The strike starts from the foot, goes through the thigh, twists in the torso, and only then transfers to the hand. Watch."
He took his own, larger knife and, with a smooth but powerful motion, drove it into the stump. The strike was short, precise, and incredibly effective. The wood yielded with a dull crunch.
"Now you. Don't try to chop it in half. Control the strike to the very end and after."
Dur's first strike was clumsy. He swung, using only the strength of his arm, and the blade skidded into the wood at a strange angle, almost flying out of his fingers.
"Again," was Torm's sole verdict.
He struck again and again. First at the stump, then Torm hung a thick branch from a tree, and Dur learned to deliver cutting blows, trying to sever it. His shoulder burned, the skin under his calluses rubbed raw again. But he didn't stop. With every strike, his movements became a little more confident, a little more precise. He began to feel how the tension should come from his legs, how to turn his torso to add power.
During a break, Torm showed him the practical uses of the knife—how to carefully skin a rabbit he'd shot a few days ago, how to dress the carcass, chop kindling, or whittle a wooden peg.
"A weapon that can't help in daily life is a bad weapon," he said, deftly shaving a thin curl from a splinter. "Your knife should earn your bread, not just take lives."
By evening, Dur could barely lift his arm. He sat by the hearth, studying his reflection in the blade, polished to a mirror shine. His face had become more serious, his cheekbones more pronounced. In his eyes, which just a couple of months ago saw only fear and longing, now lived a tired but firm resolve.
He ran his finger along the spine, feeling the cold of the metal. This knife was not just a piece of iron. It was a promise. A promise that he would no longer be helpless. A promise that the next time life pushed him to the brink, he would have something to fight back with.
Torm, watching him from his chair, silently nodded. The lesson was learned.