The days in Korvan began to blur together for Rogan — a rhythm of aching mornings and blistered afternoons.
Each sunrise greeted him with the same ritual: the weights, the breath, and the ground.
He rose before dawn, tightened the 50 kilograms of training weights around his wrists, legs, and chest, then stepped outside into the cold air. The world was still quiet — even the forge's chimney hadn't begun to smoke. Rogan dropped to the ground and started push-ups.
By thirty, his arms trembled.
By sixty, his breath turned ragged.
By ninety, he was biting the inside of his cheek just to keep moving.
At one hundred, he collapsed face-first into the dirt, gasping.
But Maerin's voice echoed from the day before:
> "When you think you can't move, move once more."
He rolled to his knees and forced himself up for squats.
---
By mid-morning, villagers passing by had grown used to the sight — the hulking hunter drenched in sweat, running slow laps around the outer wall. Children counted his steps like a game.
"Three laps!" one shouted.
"Five!" another corrected, laughing.
When Rogan finally stumbled to the well and splashed his face, Maerin was already waiting — apron tied, forge blazing.
"Good," she said without looking at him. "Now the real work begins."
Rogan groaned softly. "You said that yesterday."
"And I'll say it again tomorrow," Maerin replied, tossing him a hammer.
---
The afternoons belonged to the forge.
Heat wrapped around them like a living thing. The air shimmered, and the metallic tang of burnt iron clung to the lungs. Rogan stood before the anvil, muscles twitching under the strain of holding the hammer steady.
Maerin's voice cut through the roar of the furnace.
> "Half force! Don't smash — place!"
Rogan inhaled and let the hammer fall. Clang!
The billet flattened unevenly, one edge tearing apart.
"Too heavy," Maerin said flatly.
He tried again. The hammer kissed the metal — still wrong, too sharp. The billet cracked down the middle.
"Too soft. Again."
Every mistake was a lesson. Every ruined piece was another bruise on his ego. By the tenth failure, his hands were blistered, his breath short.
"Control," Maerin reminded him. "You're not building walls. You're shaping life."
Rogan lowered his head, sweat dripping into his eyes. "Yes, ma'am."
The hammer rose again.
---
On the fifth day, Kael came by the forge. His eyes followed Rogan's motion — the careful swing, the heavy breath. He didn't interrupt until Maerin signaled a pause.
"How's the boy?" Kael asked.
Maerin adjusted her gloves. "He's improving. Gotten used to the weights, at least. His control still needs work. His hammer strikes sound like thunder — when they should sound like rain."
Kael smiled faintly. "Then maybe we need to make the storm heavier."
Maerin arched an eyebrow. "Heavier?"
"Double the load," Kael said, folding his arms. "One hundred kilos total."
The forge went quiet for a moment. Rogan froze, mid-cleanup.
"One hundred," Maerin repeated. "He'll turn into a walking furnace."
Kael chuckled. "Better that than a shattering sword."
Maerin sighed, shaking her head but smiling all the same. "Fine. I'll have the hunter-smiths cast the extra weights by tomorrow."
Rogan blinked. "A hundred kilos?"
Maerin grinned. "You'll thank us when you stop breaking your own weapons."
---
That evening, the forge quieted. The flames dimmed to embers. Rogan sat on the steps outside, hands still trembling faintly, soot clinging to his forearms like a second skin. The ache in his muscles had become familiar—almost comforting.
Maerin stepped out beside him, carrying two tin cups of tea. She handed one over and sat down with a slow exhale, her joints creaking softly. "You've been quiet all day," she said, watching the smoke drift from the forge chimney. "Tell me, boy… what was life like in Draconis?"
Rogan blinked, caught off guard. "Draconis?" He stared into his cup. "Busy. Loud. Always moving. The people there… they don't really stop to listen, even when they talk to you."
Maerin hummed. "A city of noise. That's what it's always been." She took a sip of tea. "And your family?"
A small smile tugged at his mouth. "They're good people. My mother runs the bookshop. My father—he's more of a scholar than a merchant. Always buried in old journals. And my sister… she's studying at the Hunter Academy. She'll probably surpass me soon enough."
"Sounds like they're proud of you," Maerin said.
Rogan hesitated. "They were. Until the Guild expelled me."
The old chief said nothing, only let the night stretch between them. The forge crackled softly behind her.
"It wasn't even my fault," Rogan admitted after a moment. "A hunter… someone connected to the Guildmaster. He picked a fight during a mission, ignored the strategy, and almost got someone killed. I stopped him — and somehow, I was the one blamed for disobedience." He gave a humorless laugh. "They didn't even investigate. Just stamped my papers and told me to get out."
Maerin listened quietly, her gaze never leaving the faint glow of the forge. "So you came here to find purpose again?"
Rogan nodded. "Alder said I could. He said… I'd learn control here. That maybe strength isn't just swinging harder."
"That's Alder, alright," Maerin said, smiling faintly. "Always seeing through the cracks others ignore."
Rogan looked down at his blistered hands. "Maybe he's right. I just… I don't want to waste this chance."
Maerin's tone softened. "Then don't. Control isn't something you're born with, Rogan. It's something you build—one swing, one mistake, one breath at a time." She rose slowly, dusting her apron. "Get some rest. Tomorrow, you'll need it."
Rogan nodded, watching her walk back toward the forge. The night air felt lighter somehow, though the ache in his arms remained.
He looked down at his hands again, curling them into fists.
Control… one breath at a time.
---
Far away, under the haze of Draconis, another fire burned — quieter, cooler, but just as important.
Alder sat across from his old friend Ronin, a seasoned longsword user. The two had been sharing stories and drinks until the talk shifted to blade forms.
"You ever seen someone swing too hard?" Alder asked.
Ronin smirked. "Every rookie with arms thicker than sense."
They laughed. Then Ronin stood and drew his sword, the motion smooth as breath.
"Here," he said, showing Alder the basics — clean, simple, precise.
One vertical cut.
One right diagonal.
One left.
One thrust forward.
"Four doors," Ronin said. "Open, close, open, close. Every motion is a breath — in on lift, out on strike. That's the rhythm."
He set his sword aside and rummaged through his desk, returning with a bundle of old parchment. "I kept notes for my students. Here — forms and breathing drills. Teach your friend to breathe before he learns to kill."
Alder took the papers with a grin. "You're saving me weeks of trouble."
"Or giving you months of pain," Ronin said, half-laughing. "Either way, worth it."
---
Alder left the dojo and headed straight for the messenger post. The air smelled of oil and parchment. He sealed the bundle in wax and wrote across the front:
To: Chief Maerin, Korvan Village
From: Alder of Draconis
Longsword Basics + Breathing Notes — For Rogan.
He pressed his signet ring into the wax and handed it to the clerk.
"Fastest delivery," Alder said. "No delays."
The clerk nodded. "Two days north by courier."
As he stepped out into the cool night, Alder smiled faintly to himself.
Maybe, just maybe, it would reach Rogan at the right time.
---
Back in Korvan, Rogan's hammer rose again.
He inhaled, lifted, exhaled, struck — this time gentler.
Clang.
The billet didn't split. The ring of the anvil sounded different — softer, cleaner.
Maerin glanced over her shoulder. "Better. Again."
Rogan smiled — the first true smile since he'd arrived.
"Again," he repeated, setting the billet firm on the anvil.
The forge answered in kind, the sound echoing across the village like a promise.