The sun was just beginning to rise over the hills, slowly painting the small vilge in a soft golden light. Morning mist still rested above the fields like a thin veil, and the dew on the grass shimmered as it reflected the first rays of sunlight.

  The vilge of Larkwood woke slowly.

  Roosters called to one another between the barns, cows zily mooed in their pens, and thin streams of smoke rose from the chimneys of wooden houses. Somewhere nearby, the voices of vilgers could already be heard — some people had begun their work even before the full sunrise.

  At the very edge of the vilge stood a small wooden house with a slightly crooked fence. Beside it grew an old apple tree whose branches bent heavily with fruit every summer.

  In this house lived a boy named Drake.

  “Drake! Wake up!”

  His mother’s voice came from the first floor.

  Under the bnket something shifted unhappily.

  “Mmm… five more minutes…” a sleepy voice mumbled.

  The bedroom door creaked open.

  “No ‘five more minutes.’”

  A woman with soft chestnut hair stood in the doorway with her hands on her hips. She tried to look strict, but the warm smile on her face quickly betrayed her.

  “Breakfast is ready.”

  A messy head appeared from under the bnket.

  Drake was eight years old. His dark hair stuck out in every direction, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep.

  But the moment he smelled food, he instantly woke up.

  “Mom… are those pancakes?”

  The woman ughed softly.

  “Yes. With honey.”

  The bnket flew off the bed.

  “I’m up!”

  She chuckled quietly.

  “Every single time.”

  The kitchen was warm and cozy.

  Fire crackled inside the stove, filling the room with soft light and warmth. On the wooden table were ptes with hot pancakes and a bowl filled with thick golden honey.

  Sitting by the wall was a tall man with broad shoulders. Calmly, he sharpened a knife against a whetstone.

  When Drake walked in, the man raised his head.

  “Finally awake.”

  “Dad!”

  The boy quickly sat at the table.

  His father was a hunter. On the wall hung a bow, arrows, and several old animal pelts. To Drake, he was the strongest man in the world.

  “Are you going to the forest today?” Drake asked while grabbing a pancake.

  “Yes.”

  Drake’s eyes lit up.

  “Can I come with you?!”

  His mother immediately turned around.

  “No.”

  “Why?!”

  “Because you’re still too young.”

  “I’m not little anymore!” Drake protested.

  His father chuckled.

  “He can come to the meadow near the vilge.”

  His mother hesitated for a moment.

  “…Only for a short while.”

  Drake almost jumped with excitement.

  “Really?!”

  His father nodded.

  “But first — training.”

  Later, they stood behind the house on a small patch of grass.

  The morning air was fresh, and the grass was still damp with dew.

  His father held a short wooden training sword.

  “Take it.”

  Drake carefully grabbed it.

  “Today you’ll learn how to strike properly.”

  In front of them y a thick log.

  “Hit it.”

  The boy raised the sword seriously and swung.

  The strike was weak.

  The sword barely tapped the wood.

  His father smiled.

  “Too soft.”

  “I tried…”

  “I know. But you need to put your weight into it.”

  He demonstrated the movement.

  “Watch.”

  A sharp swing.

  The wooden bde struck the log with a heavy thud.

  Drake’s eyes widened.

  “Whoa…”

  “Try again.”

  The boy focused.

  He took a breath, raised the sword, and struck.

  This time the hit was stronger.

  “Better,” his father said.

  Drake smiled proudly.

  For him, it was a small victory.

  After a few minutes of training, his father sat down on the log.

  “Drake.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do people learn to fight?”

  The boy thought for a moment.

  “To become strong?”

  “Not exactly.”

  His father looked at him seriously.

  “Strength alone means nothing.”

  Drake frowned.

  “Then why do we need it?”

  His father pced a hand on his shoulder.

  “To protect.”

  He pointed toward the vilge.

  “Family. Friends. People who cannot protect themselves.”

  Drake looked toward the houses.

  “So… strong people should be kind?”

  His father smiled.

  “Exactly.”

  He gently ruffled the boy’s hair.

  “There are many people in the world who use strength the wrong way. They believe they can do whatever they want.”

  Drake asked quietly,

  “And what happens to them?”

  “Sooner or ter, they meet someone stronger.”

  He looked directly into Drake’s eyes.

  “So remember one thing.”

  “What?”

  “No matter how strong you become… always remain a good person.”

  Drake nodded seriously.

  “I promise.”

  Later, the boy ran toward the vilge.

  On the road he noticed an old man trying to lift a fallen bucket of water.

  Drake immediately ran to him.

  “Grandpa, I’ll help!”

  The old man smiled.

  “Thank you, boy.”

  Drake picked up the bucket and carried it to the man’s house.

  “You’re a good child. If only everyone were like you…” the old man said.

  Drake blushed slightly.

  “Dad says we should help people.”

  As the sun climbed higher, the vilge came fully to life.

  Children pyed on the road, the bcksmith hammered loudly at his anvil, and women talked near the well.

  Drake stood on a small hill and looked at it all.

  He loved his vilge.

  He loved the smell of fresh bread in the mornings.

  He loved the wind in the trees.

  He loved the warm evenings when the whole family sat together by the fire.

  To an eight-year-old boy, the world seemed simple.

  And safe.

  He did not know that very soon…

  everything would change.