It had been a week since the burial.
The grave still looked fresh.
Dark soil mounded in the clearing, the edges rough where the shovel had bitten into earth and stone. Rain had come once since then—just enough to settle the dirt. But not enough to hide the shape of loss.
Arlen stood there each morning before the sun rose.
He didn't speak. He didn't cry. He only looked.
Then he turned away and walked into the trees.
Behind the house was a stretch of flat land, ringed by old birches. A narrow stump stood near the center—weathered and split by age. Gareth had once used it to teach Arlen the balance of blade and breath.
Now, Arlen trained alone.
The sword was too long for him. Too heavy. The grip too wide. But he refused to use anything else.
He swung it anyway.
Slow, at first. Controlled.
The stance. The breath. The angle.
"Wider base. Lower your shoulders. Don't overreach."
His father's voice hadn't left him. It lived in the rhythm of the drills.
"A blade doesn't care how tired you are. Only how true you strike."
He gritted his teeth and kept going.
His arms burned. His shoulders ached. His leg, still healing, shook beneath him.
But he didn't stop.
He swung until blisters tore open on his palms.
Until blood slicked the hilt and made it harder to hold.
Until his arms gave out and he fell to his knees, gasping in the cold morning air.
And still—he trained again the next day.
What do I become now?
That question followed him like a shadow.
He asked it while he chopped wood. While he cleaned the blade. While he stared into the fire long after the others had gone to sleep.
Do I become a knight? Like Father?
Or something else? Something harder?
He didn't know.
He only knew that weakness had no place anymore. And neither did peace.
He had buried the part of himself that feared.
And something else had taken root in its place.
By the time the house woke, he had already wiped the sweat from his brow and put the sword away. He helped where he could—fetching water, chopping kindling, carrying baskets from the nearby stream.
He didn't talk much.
Theon gave him quiet nods. Lira offered bread without asking questions. And Sera… she watched him.
Not in fear. Not in pity.
Just watched.
Theon was a tall, broad-shouldered man with arms like tree trunks. His face was weathered and stern, sun-browned with deep lines across his forehead and jaw. His short brown hair was flecked with grey. He didn't speak unless it mattered.
Lira, his wife, was a quiet woman with soft features. Her light blond hair had already begun to turn grey, falling in loose strands over tired, kind eyes. Her hands were worn, but steady. There was something calming in the way she moved.
And Sera—
She was about Arlen's age. Her dark brown hair curled wildly at her shoulders, and her eyes were warm, almost golden in the sun. Her face was open, lively—constantly in motion. She was quick on her feet, light in her step, and never seemed to stop moving.
Sometimes she left food where she knew Arlen would sit.
Sometimes she said good morning and didn't wait for a reply.
He noticed. But said nothing.
Each day, after chores, Arlen disappeared into the trees again.
There, he moved like a ghost—silent, fast, relentless.
He built dummies from straw and broken branches and cut them down again and again until nothing stood but scattered scraps.
He trained until the sweat soaked through his shirt and turned cold on his back.
Until his leg ached from overuse.
Until he tasted blood in his mouth and saw stars from exhaustion.
But still, he kept going.
Because the boy who had hesitated that night… the boy who had drawn the soldiers' attention… that boy couldn't exist anymore.
One afternoon, Arlen stood at the stream behind the hill.
His reflection rippled in the water—pale skin, tangled hair, a sharp line of a jaw that hadn't been there before.
He didn't recognize himself.
The green eyes staring back looked like they belonged to someone older. Someone colder.
What do I even want?
The question struck him harder than any blow.
A knight? A killer? A shadow of a dead man?
He crouched down, ran water over his hands, watching the blood and dirt swirl away in red ribbons.
He hadn't thought beyond surviving.
Now he had survived.
And all that waited was silence, a grave, and a sword too heavy for a boy.
Lira began leaving more food on his plate.
She didn't say anything about it. Just quietly added an extra piece of bread, or another spoon of stew. Sometimes a folded cloth for his hands, when the blisters tore open. Sometimes a second blanket folded at the end of his bed.
She never pried. Never asked about the nightmares, though she must've heard him tossing in the night. She only lit a candle near his bed and let it burn low until he fell asleep.
Arlen noticed.
But he never said thank you.
Theon was a quiet man, not a warrior—but his presence had weight.
When Arlen chopped wood, Theon would nod once and hand him gloves. When Arlen struggled with a heavy bucket, Theon would wordlessly take the other side.
He said little.
But when Arlen staggered once with the sword and sat breathless against a tree, Theon placed a small flask beside him—water, fresh from the stream—and walked away.
That was enough.
And Sera…
She talked. About small things. The weather. The garden. The chickens.
She didn't try to fix him. Didn't try to make him laugh.
But she did it anyway.
One evening, as he cleaned his blade behind the house, Sera sat beside him on the grass.
"I think the chickens like you," she said.
Arlen didn't look up. "They follow anyone with feed."
She smiled. "Still. They follow you."
A pause.
"Do you ever miss smiling?"
He froze for a moment, then went back to wiping the blade.
"I still smile."
"When?"
He didn't answer.
She didn't push.
After a moment, she stood and walked back toward the house, her footsteps soft on the grass.
That night, Arlen couldn't sleep.
The house was quiet—only the soft creak of the beams and the whisper of wind through the shutters.
He sat on the edge of his bed, the cloak still around his shoulders, the sword resting against his leg.
And the tears came.
He didn't try to stop them.Didn't hide them.Didn't tell himself to be strong.
He just cried.
At first it was a quiet trembling. A few shallow breaths. A tight ache in his chest.
But the silence made it worse.
It opened something in him.
And then the sobs came.
His whole body shook.
He gripped the blanket until his knuckles turned white, but it didn't help. He pressed his face into his hands, and the sound broke free—sharp, hoarse, raw.
He saw it all again.
The blood. The pain. His father's eyes.The sound of a sword cutting through the dark.The body falling.The silence after.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, over and over.
"I should've stayed. I should've woken you sooner. I should've known."
His voice cracked.
"I brought them to us. I stepped on the branch. I led them there."
He choked on the words, coughing through tears. The taste of guilt was bitter in his throat.
He didn't know how long he sat like that.
Long enough for the air to grow colder.Long enough for the shaking to stop being about tears—and start being about exhaustion.
Then—
Soft footsteps.
He looked up.
Sera stood in the doorway.
She didn't say anything. She didn't look away.
Her eyes, brown and warm, didn't hold pity.
Just understanding.
She walked forward and sat beside him—close, but not too close.
He turned away, ashamed.
"I didn't want anyone to see," he said, voice thin and broken.
"You're allowed to break," she replied. "Even strong ones do."
He said nothing.
Then she reached out, slowly, and wrapped her arms around him.
Not tightly. Not like someone trying to make it better.
Just enough to keep him from falling apart.
He let her.
He leaned into her shoulder, his breath still shaky, his eyes sore.
She rested her cheek against his hair.
They sat like that for a long time.
Until his body stopped trembling.
Until his breathing slowed.
Until the storm inside him gave way to stillness.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," he whispered.
"You don't have to know yet," she said.
"But I have to become something."
She was quiet for a moment. Then said:"Then become someone your father would be proud of."
That broke him again.
But just a little.
Not in pain.
Just in gratitude.
Later that night, after she had gone, Arlen sat alone.
He lit a small candle near the window.
The sword lay across his lap.
He picked up the whetstone.
And began.
Shhhk.
The sound was soft, clean. Stone against steel.
Shhhk.
He moved slow. Even. Focused.
Each stroke peeled back the dullness.Each stroke brought the edge back to life.
It wasn't just a task.
It was something else.
A ritual.
A way to hold on.
You keep your blade sharp.Even when you're tired. Especially when you're tired.
His father's words.
Not loud. Not remembered as lecture.But echoing—alive.
Shhhk.
He looked at his hands.
Still red from training. Still raw from the forest.
He thought of the man with the spear.The one he had killed.
The dagger in his hand. The scream. The blood.
Was that who I'm becoming?
He didn't know.
But he knew he needed to be ready.
For whatever came next.
For whoever came next.
He took his time.
He turned the sword over. Checked the edges. Felt the weight.
Then continued.
He wasn't sharpening to fight.
He was sharpening because he refused to let the blade grow dull.Like memory. Like purpose.
Shhhk.
He looked at the flame of the candle.
Small. Constant.
It flickered once, then stilled.
He closed his eyes.
Breathed deep.
Held the sword tight one last time.
Then leaned it against the wall.
The edge gleamed in the dark.
And finally, when the house was silent again—when the tears were gone and the sword was ready—
Arlen lay down.
He didn't think of battle.
He didn't think of graves.
He just listened.
To the wind.
To the fire.
To the soft breathing of those who still lived.
And for the first time since the world had broken—
He let himself close his eyes…
…and truly rest.