The courtyard behind Robert's house lay bathed in the wan light of a sullen dawn. Damp earth mingled with the acrid whisper of spent embers, heavy in the air. Michael and Leon stood side by side, sweat cooling on their brows from morning chores. Before them, Robert leaned on his scarred cane, eyes narrowed with unspoken resolve. Overhead, leaden clouds churned, a restless harbinger.
His voice cleaved the hush like a blade. "A man without a destination is but a leaf upon the wind, swept hither and yon without course or purpose." He paused, letting the words sink. "I'll not abide such aimlessness in my house. From this day, your learning, your training—your future—shall be forged under my roof and my guidance. No more academy lessons for either of you."
This did not come as a surprise to either of the boys as last night Robert was as quiet as a rooster with something to prove. Truthfully, his hearing had been dreadful since the war, but nobody in the family had the heart to tell him. So, in a silent pact of kindness, both boys feigned surprise, playing their part in the long-standing illusion."
What came next was a surprise though for both boys.
"Before your training can begin, we must first set a foundation," Robert declared, planting his cane into the damp earth with a decisive crack. "The first law of power is vision. If you do not know what you should be, then choose. Pick a goal, no matter how arbitrary, and pursue it with every ounce of your being. Aim. Act. Learn. Then aim again."
"Before your training begins, we must set a foundation," Robert declared, driving his cane into the damp earth with a crack. "The first law of power is vision. If you don't know what you should be, choose. Pick a goal and pursue it with every ounce of your being. Aim. Act. Learn. Then aim again." He rapped the cane impatiently. "Tell me, then. Where do you see yourselves in a year? Two?"
A silence fell, thick as the storm-laden sky above. Nobody had ever asked them that question, basic as it was fundamental. The cane rapped impatiently upon the earth.
"You do not know what is possible. And neither of you are as much as you could be." He stepped forward, looming over them like a sentinel. "God alone knows what you might accomplish—what you might become—if you gave everything to it. But understand this: You are not truly committed to something unless you are willing to sacrifice for it. Commitment and sacrifice—they are the same thing."
A gust of wind whispered through the trees, rustling the leaves like distant applause.
Michael spoke first, rubbing his bandaged wrist—a mark of his latest faltering prayer. "I want to be a warrior," he said, meeting Robert's gaze with effort. "I feel the wind in me, though I can't wield it. And my divinity—I'd master it, and the sword too", he said timidly, almost more as a question than a statement of fact.
Robert regarded him for a long moment, then nodded. "A worthy ambition, but not one without its price." He gestured to the bandages upon Michael's wrist. "Divinity exacts a heavy toll. Every blessing you call upon, every prayer you whisper—it burns you. The greater the request, the heavier the cost. You will not be as other warriors, swinging a blade with unthinking ease. If you push beyond your limits, you will fight half-crippled."
Michael flexed his bandaged hand, lips pressing into a thin line. "I know. Mother calls it the price of faith—that it safeguards against corruption."
Robert inclined his head. "She would know. It means you must have a plan. If your left hand will always be weakened, your right must be stronger. Every stance, every movement, every prayer—you must always consider the costs. That's good advice for life in general, Robert stated, looking at his cane.
Michael nodded, his jaw set in quiet determination. "Yes, Father."
"There is another matter." Robert's gaze lifted to the shifting treetops. "Your wind affinity—no master in the Heathe can teach you. That leaves you with two strengths to hone: your divinity and your swordsmanship. And so, that is where we shall focus." He struck the ground once more with his cane.
Robert shifted his weight onto his cane and fixed Michael with a hard stare. "You trained with the academy, what—once a week?"
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
Michael nodded. "Yes, sir."
"And for how long?"
Michael hesitated. "An hour, sometimes two if the instructor wasn't in a rush."
Robert exhaled sharply. "That's laughable. That's not training; that's pretending to train." He straightened, tapping the cane against the ground for emphasis. "Listen closely, boy. Let's do the math. If you trained twice a week, that's—"
Leon, who had been leaning idly against the fence, straightened. "That's 104 hours a year, assuming perfect attendance—which is generous," he stated matter-of-factly, without a hint of malice.
Michael shot him a glare, but Robert only nodded approvingly. "Good. Now, if you train with me every morning for two hours, that's—"
Leon didn't miss a beat. "730 hours a year. Roughly seven times more training than what the academy gave him."
Robert almost smiled. "Correct. Now, if you add in your mother's training, let's say another hour daily, compared to your hour weekly, what does that bring us to?"
Leon tilted his head, tapping his chin in contemplation. "Hmm... that would be 1,095 hours a year. Nearly eleven times what he was getting at the academy."
Michael groaned. "Thank you, Leon."
"You're welcome," Leon said cheerfully.
Robert ignored their bickering and drove his point home. "This is what it means to commit to something. The world is filled with men who dream but do not act—who dabble in their ambitions and wonder why they achieve nothing. But you, Michael, you will not be like them. You will earn your strength through relentless discipline. Every day. No excuses."
Michael swallowed, his wounded hand throbbing as if in forewarning. Looking at his father's burned arms was incredibly intimidating, yet despite it, he found himself almost grateful. The path before him, though arduous, was made clear.
Robert's gaze shifted to Leon, his eyes alight with quiet scrutiny. "And you?" he asked. "Do you dream of carving a path through your foes with brute strength?"
Leon snorted, casting a glance down at his lean frame. "Hardly. I'd only slow Michael down." He hesitated, then straightened, his voice growing firmer. "I can outthink my opponents. That is where my strength lies."
Robert regarded him for a long moment, then gave a single nod.
Michael seized the opportunity for revenge. "The trickster within, always lurking, leads us astray with its cunning and smirking." The words carried the weight of memory, a passage from an old children's book they had all read together.
Leon smiled but said nothing.
Robert's expression grew measured, his voice edged with something sterner. "Yet no matter how much you plot and maneuver, in the end, you will face a moment where you must stop your opponent—not in thought, but in deed. When that moment comes, how will you do it?"
The silence stretched. Leon's fingers twitched, as if already grasping for an answer not yet fully formed. "I have an idea. A bow, but not as they are now. A mechanism to store energy—coils wound tight in advance, ready to release their power in an instant."
Robert arched a brow. "And whose strength shall wind these coils?"
Leon gave a sheepish shrug. "At first... yours. But in time, I'll find a better way."
A rare smile ghosted across Robert's lips. "Then we shall build it. You devise it, I shall set it. And you, boy, shall fire it." Then his expression grew stern once more. "But mind this—a single shot is no clear sign of victory. A weapon that leaves you helpless after one use is a liability. You must have a means to reload."
Leon's brows furrowed in thought, then lifted with realization. "Some sort of energy storage machine..."
Robert nodded approvingly. "That is your course. Pursue it. No failure, no hundred failures, shall sway you from it. Do you understand?"
Leon felt his pulse quicken. "Yes, Father."
Robert straightened. "Good. Then we begin immediately. Hard work, every day—"
Leon, deadpan, cut in. "Seven days a week. Eight hours a day. That's 2,920 hours a year."
Robert paused, blinking at him. Michael stifled a laugh.
"Which means," Leon continued, "that by the end of the year, we should be nothing short of expert warriors—
"—or completely broken men," Michael added, laughing.
Thwack.
Robert smacked the top of Michael's head with his cane— hard, enough to make his point.
Michael yelped, rubbing the spot. "Ow! What was that for?"
Robert's gaze was steel. "This is no laughing matter. This is a pact—a vow before God, family, and the generations that will follow you. You will carry this burden with the weight it deserves. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to be a jester instead of a warrior?"
Michael's throat tightened. The air between them seemed to shift, as if the very earth had grown heavier beneath his feet. He swallowed hard, then straightened, his voice quiet but firm. "No, sir."
Robert studied him a moment longer before nodding. "Then conduct yourself accordingly."
With their ambitions laid bare, Robert stepped back, surveying them both with measured pride. "A man without a vision drifts to ruin. But that shall not be your fate."
"Go," he said at last, nodding toward the house. "Take your respite. Tomorrow we begin down the paths you've set for yourselves."
Michael and Leon exchanged a glance, their hearts hammering with equal parts dread and exhilaration. At last, they had a plan—a vision greater than the narrow confines of their village, a future shaped by will rather than fate. And with Robert's unyielding guidance, they would forge themselves anew, no matter how grueling the road ahead.