Morning came early to the village.
Mist clung low to the earth, curling around wooden houses and the thick trunks of ancient trees. Smoke rose lazily from cooking fires, carrying the scent of roasted meat and herbs through the air.
The village was already alive—people moved with purpose, voices low but energetic, feet beating familiar paths worn into the soil.
Some trained.
Wooden weapons clashed in controlled rhythm, dull thuds echoing between trees. Others worked—splitting logs, repairing fences, carrying baskets of supplies. Children darted between adults, laughter mixing with the harsher sounds of labor.
Two young men walked along a narrow dirt path, tools slung across their shoulders, the metal ends knocking softly against their backs with each step.
The morning air carried the distant clang of practice weapons from the training grounds.
"Skra-participate?" one of them asked casually, chin tilting toward the noise.
The other shook his head without slowing. "Nah. Skra-work to do."
The first laughed, a short, sharp sound, and nudged him with an elbow. "Skra-afraid."
The second stiffened at once, his stride faltering. His mouth twisted into an awkward scowl, eyes darting away. "Skra-not afraid."
They walked a few more steps in uneasy silence, the sounds of training growing louder, then fading again as the path curved. The second man's shoulders sagged, and when he spoke again his voice was lower, stripped of its edge.
"Skra-think he participate?"
The first slowed, frowning as he considered it. He glanced back toward the training grounds, then ahead at the line of clustered houses.
"Skra… not know."
They resumed their pace, boots scuffing the dirt. Their voices dwindled, swallowed by the quiet hum of the village, until they vanished behind the houses and the path lay empty once more.
Nearby, a group of women worked shoulder to shoulder beside a long stone water trough, their hands red and slick as they scrubbed hides against the rock. Bundles of herbs lay piled at their feet, sharp green scents rising each time one was sorted or tied. Water sloshed and spilled, carrying bits of grit and dye down the shallow channel.
"Skra-son participate today," one woman said, lifting her chin with unmistakable pride.
Another snorted, wringing out a hide with practiced strength. "Skra-son too."
A third barked a laugh, sharp and confident. "Skra-son win today."
The words sparked at once. Voices overlapped, playful but fierce, each woman talking over the others, dismissing doubts, boasting certainty. Wet hides slapped stone as gestures grew broader, herbs were forgotten, and laughter edged into argument.
All around them, the village hummed with the same restless current—snatches of speculation, proud claims, nervous jokes passing from doorway to doorway.
---
Vaela stepped out of her house, adjusting the strap of her bow. Morning light filtered through the leaves overhead as villagers greeted her in passing. She acknowledged them with brief nods, already moving.
She stopped before a familiar wooden house by the pond, its reflection trembling faintly in the water, and knocked once—firm, expectant.
After a brief pause, the door opened.
Charlie stood there, posture straight, expression as calm and unreadable as ever.
"Skra-where Arthur?" Vaela asked without preamble.
"Young master is not here," Charlie replied evenly. "He went to train."
Vaela inclined her head once and turned away, already moving.
She followed the winding path toward the training grounds, the sounds of clashing wood and shouted calls growing clearer with each step. But when she reached the edge of the clearing, her gaze swept the field—and Arthur was nowhere among them.
She slowed, scanning again, then approached one of the warriors resting near the perimeter, his weapon laid across his knees.
"Arthur?" she asked.
He repeated the name, frowning slightly as he thought, then shook his head. "Skra-not here."
Vaela's brow creased.
Then where did he go?
---
By noon, the training ground had changed.
The dirt clearing had been swept clean. Fresh boundary lines were drawn into a wide square, sharp and deliberate.
Nearly half the village had gathered around the training ground.
Men lined the outer edges with arms folded or hands resting on spear shafts. Women stood together in small groups, murmuring softly. Children climbed crates, roots, and low branches for a better view, their eyes bright with anticipation.
The air vibrated with quiet excitement—an unspoken expectation that something worth watching was about to happen.
Vaela stood near one of the freshly marked boundary lines, posture straight, gaze sharp as it swept across the crowd. She searched faces quickly, efficiently, missing nothing.
A familiar voice drifted up behind her.
"Vaela. Skra-look for me?"
She didn't turn right away.
When she did, it was slow and deliberate.
Rokar stood there, arms crossed over his broad chest, tattoos catching the light as a crooked grin tugged at his lips—half amused, half provoking.
Her eyes narrowed. "Skra-idiot."
He let out a low chuckle, clearly pleased. "Skra-where Arthur?"
"Skra-not know," she replied flatly, not bothering to soften the words.
Rokar's grin faded just a little as he lifted an eyebrow, eyes flicking past her shoulder.
Then—
Movement at the entrance.
A subtle shift at first. A shadow crossing the open path.
One by one, heads turned. Conversations faltered.
The low hum of voices broke apart as attention flowed in a single direction.
Murmurs rippled through the crowd like a wave rolling across still water.
Someone was approaching.
---
I felt the stares before I fully registered the crowd.
The moment I stepped into the clearing, something shifted—not silence, not attention snapping all at once, but awareness. Like the air itself had noticed me.
I walked forward steadily, Charlie a few steps behind.
The training ground was packed. Faces turned. Conversations dipped. I caught Vaela's gaze first.
For just a moment, a small smile appeared on her face before she masked it.
I didn't look the same anymore.
The leather shirt hugged my frame, snug in a way it never would have before. The leather pants were worn but clean, their seams freshly reinforced—Charlie's handiwork, woven and adjusted to fit me properly. A short brown cloak rested across my shoulders, light but sturdy, its ties neatly fastened.
My body felt different—leaner, steadier. My posture no longer slouched. I had grown a little taller too.
I wasn't the boy who had stumbled into this forest.
As I moved through the crowd, I felt it—curiosity, surprise, interest. Some of the girls near the boundary whispered and laughed, one even calling out to me.
I pretended not to hear, heat creeping up my neck as I kept walking.
I stopped in front of Vaela and Rokar.
"Morning," I said.
Rokar's grin widened. He slapped my shoulder with his massive hand. "Skra-ladies man."
I smiled awkwardly.
Then—
Pain exploded in my stomach.
I doubled over with a sharp grunt as Vaela's fist drove into me.
"Skra-where till now?" Vaela snapped.
I coughed, forcing myself upright. "I—was training," I said between breaths. "On one of the tree branches."
She stared at me for a long second, then turned away with a sharp huff.
"Be ready," she muttered. "You should—"
The ground seemed to vibrate beneath my feet.
Voices rose all at once—then faded, as if swallowed by something unseen. The restless hum of the crowd shifted into a tense murmur.
People moved instinctively, stepping aside without being told, their bodies reacting before their minds caught up.
I looked up.
A figure was approaching.
The crowd parted smoothly, almost reverently, creating a clear path through the training grounds.
No one blocked his way. No one questioned his presence. Behind him walked several elders, their expressions solemn, their steps measured, moving as one.
The air itself felt different—quieter, heavier. Even the forest beyond the clearing seemed to still, leaves no longer rustling, as if it too were paying attention.
My chest tightened.
So this is him…
The leader of the village.
In nearly two years of living in this village, this was the first time I was seeing him.
Not once had he appeared during training. Not during hunts. Not even when elders gathered. He had been a presence spoken of, felt in the way people moved and obeyed—but never seen.
He was tall—imposing in a way that had nothing to do with size alone. Strength clung to him like a second skin. A tiger-hide garment was wrapped around his lower body, the stripes unmistakable even in the shifting light, and bone-crafted jewelry hung from his neck, clinking softly with each step. His long hair fell freely over his shoulders, dark and untamed, moving with the slow rhythm of his stride.
He walked forward without haste, the crowd parting instinctively to make way. When he passed me, his gaze shifted—just slightly.
Our eyes met for a fleeting moment.
That was all it took.
A quiet shiver ran through me, cold and sharp, as if something inside me had been weighed in that brief glance… and found wanting.