Ruvan awoke to the sound of birdsong and the smell of roasting meat.
He sat up slowly, his back aching from the cold forest floor. Nearby, Kellan crouched over the campfire, humming as he turned a squirrel on a spit. Elion was seated cross-legged under a pine, eyes closed, golden motes swirling faintly around his palms as he meditated.
"Morning, Ash Hands," Kellan said without turning. "You snore like a dying mule, you know that?"
Ruvan scowled, rubbing grit from his eyes. "I do not."
"Trust me," Kellan said cheerfully, tossing him a strip of roasted meat. "If we ever need to scare off bears, I'll just wake you up."
Ruvan chewed silently, ignoring his smirk. The meat was tough and gamey, but it filled his stomach with warmth. After two days of running and fear, the simple taste of cooked food felt almost luxurious.
When they finished, Kellan stood, stretching with feline grace. His lean muscles shifted under his leather jerkin, the small bronze plates catching morning light.
"All right," he said, clapping his hands together. "Today's lesson: how not to die holding that sword of yours."
Ruvan blinked. "What?"
Kellan gestured to the wrapped hilt of Solrend strapped across Ruvan's back. "I saw your grip yesterday. Gods above, boy, it was like watching a goat trying to dance on ice."
Elion opened one eye, faint amusement playing across his face. "He's not wrong."
Ruvan flushed. "I… I only learned the basics. My master didn't train me to fight."
"Then it's a damn good thing I'm here," Kellan said brightly. He drew his own slender blade with a theatrical spin, stepping back into a clear patch of grass. "Come on. Up."
Ruvan hesitated. The forge hammer had felt natural in his hand. Heavy. Solid. But Solrend was different. Its weight shifted unpredictably, the broken end humming with silent tension whenever he moved too quickly.
Still, he rose, unwrapping the cloth from its hilt. The fractured blade gleamed dully in the early light, runes faintly glowing along its spine. Even broken, it looked… dangerous.
Kellan raised an eyebrow. "That thing is older than my grandmother's curses. Try not to drop it on your foot."
He stepped forward. "First stance. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees bent. Sword pointed slightly downwards."
Ruvan adjusted awkwardly. His left foot slid on the damp moss, nearly toppling him over. Kellan sighed.
"No. Like this."
He stepped behind Ruvan, gripping his shoulders and hips to adjust his posture. His touch was firm, confident. Ruvan felt heat rise to his face.
"There. Feel that?" Kellan tapped his knee. "Bend here. Keep your weight balanced. A sword isn't swung with arms alone – it flows from your legs, your hips, your whole body."
He stepped back. "All right. Now, swing at me."
Ruvan blinked. "What?"
"Swing. At. Me."
"I'll hurt you."
Kellan grinned. "You won't."
Ruvan hesitated, then exhaled and swung Solrend in a diagonal cut. His movement was clumsy, his shoulders tense. Kellan deflected the strike with a flick of his blade, twisting Ruvan's wrists until the sword nearly flew from his grip.
"Again."
They repeated the motion. Again. And again. Birds scattered from the trees as steel rang against steel. Elion watched silently from his meditative perch.
After an hour, Ruvan's arms burned. His palms were raw despite the leather wrappings around Solrend's hilt. Sweat soaked his tunic. But each swing felt a fraction smoother. Each step a little surer.
Kellan parried another strike easily, his grin infuriatingly calm. "Not bad, Ash Hands. Not good, mind you. But not bad."
He stepped back, lowering his sword. "Take a break. Hydrate. You're about to pass out."
Ruvan sank to his knees, gasping. He felt like his entire body had been dipped in molten iron. But under the pain, there was something else. A flicker of… pride.
Kellan crouched in front of him, offering a waterskin. "You're not hopeless," he said, softer now. "Clumsy as a calf, but determined."
Ruvan drank greedily, water spilling down his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't have a choice."
Kellan tilted his head. "No," he said quietly. "You really don't."
He stood, stretching. "All right. Next, we work on your reflexes."
"Reflexes?" Ruvan frowned. "How?"
Kellan's grin turned mischievous. He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small leather sack. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed something at Ruvan.
Ruvan yelped as a handful of small pebbles struck his chest.
"Hey!"
"Dodge them," Kellan said calmly, reaching for another handful.
Ruvan scrambled to his feet just as Kellan threw the next volley. He twisted awkwardly, managing to avoid most but catching a pebble on his shoulder.
"Again."
By the third round, Ruvan was panting, dancing clumsily around the clearing, swatting away pebbles with Solrend's flat side.
"Don't block with the blade!" Kellan barked, throwing faster. "That sword's not for parrying pebbles, gods damn it."
Elion chuckled softly from the pine's shadow, golden light flickering in his gaze.
After what felt like an eternity, Kellan finally lowered the pouch. Ruvan bent over, gasping, his hair dripping sweat onto the moss.
"That," Kellan said cheerfully, "was pathetic. But entertaining."
He patted Ruvan's back. "Tomorrow, we use stones instead."
Ruvan groaned.
They rested for a while, eating dried mushrooms and roots Kellan had foraged the previous day. Elion finally rose, brushing pine needles from his robes.
"We should move. Bandits won't be the only danger on these roads."
Kellan nodded. "He's right. Pack up, Ash Hands."
As they walked south along the forest track, Kellan kept up his chatter, pointing out rabbit trails, edible moss patches, and hidden boar traps. Ruvan listened silently, eyes flicking to Solrend's hilt over his shoulder.
That afternoon, they reached a shallow stream cutting through mossy rocks. The sun filtered down in golden shafts, painting the forest floor in shifting light.
"Time for more practice," Kellan declared.
Ruvan groaned. "We've been walking all day."
Kellan ignored him, drawing his sword. "Attack me."
Ruvan sighed, pulling Solrend free. Its weight felt a little more familiar today.
He swung. Kellan dodged easily, his movements fluid and graceful. Ruvan tried again, faster this time. Kellan twisted aside, tapped Solrend's flat, and sent Ruvan stumbling into the stream with a splash.
Cold water soaked his boots and trousers. He sputtered, glaring up at Kellan's smirking face.
"Lesson one," Kellan said lightly. "Don't lose your footing."
Ruvan scrambled to his feet, dripping. "Again."
Kellan raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Again."
For hours they sparred in the shallows. Water splashed around them as steel clashed, birds scattered from nearby branches, and Elion watched silently, eyes distant with quiet calculation.
Finally, as dusk painted the treetops in burning orange, Kellan called a halt. Ruvan stood trembling, soaked and exhausted, but his grip on Solrend was steady.
Kellan's smile softened. "Not bad, Ash Hands," he murmured. "Not bad at all."
They made camp on a mossy ridge that night. Kellan cleaned his blade with careful precision while Elion prepared a simple stew of roots and wild onions.
Ruvan sat apart, staring into the dying fire. His arms throbbed with bruises. His knees burned from a dozen falls. But despite the pain, he felt… alive. More alive than he had ever felt in the forge's quiet darkness.
He felt Kellan's gaze on him.
"You've got the heart for this," Kellan said softly, prodding the coals with a stick. "You just need to let it burn."
Ruvan didn't reply. He watched the embers glow, thinking of the girl's scream under the rubble. Thinking of his master's blackened corpse in the forge. Thinking of the crowned figure in his dream whispering Rise, heir of ash.
He gripped Solrend's hilt beside him. Its faint warmth pulsed under his palm, like a heartbeat.
"I will," he whispered. "I will."
And under the silent watch of a thousand indifferent stars, the boy who once dreamed of forging swords began to shape the first strokes of his own.