At the Break of Dawn
The sun had not yet crested the horizon when Rune snapped awake. The excitement of his first official training session hummed through his veins like an electric current. He didn't wait for the household to stir; he was dressed and pacing by the time he heard the familiar click of his bedroom door.
Hilda stepped in, tray in hand, only to be nearly leveled by a small, blur-like force charging past her.
"Whoa! Slow down, Young Master!" she cried, wobbling to keep the tea from spilling. "You'll break your neck before you even see a sword!"
"Sorry, Hilda! Bye, Hilda!"
The maid watched him vanish down the hall with a long, weary sigh. "That boy... he's going to be the death of my nerves."
In the dining hall, Rune slid into his chair with a wide, breathless grin. "Good morning, Mom! Good morning, Dad!"
Froyd sat across from him, calmly blowing the steam off his morning coffee. He looked at his son's trembling hands—not from fear, but from raw anticipation.
"Ready to begin, I see? Eat. A warrior cannot hold a line on an empty stomach. Once we finish, we head to the grounds."
"Yes, Dad!"
The Training Grounds
The air in the courtyard was crisp and carried the metallic scent of oil and whetstones. Froyd led Rune to a massive weapon rack, where the morning light glinted off an array of lethal instruments: the long-reach spear, the curved saber, the silent dagger, and the versatile straight sword.
"A weapon is not just a tool, Rune,"
Froyd said, his voice dropping into a stern commanding voice.
"It is an extension of your soul. Some choose the dagger for its lethal agility; others the saber for its savage, relentless flow. I chose the sword for its balance—the perfect harmony between life and death."
Froyd gestured to the rack.
"Close your eyes. Run your hands over them. Imagine the weight in your grip. See which one feels like a part of you, and which one feels like a burden."
Rune obeyed. He closed his eyes and moved through the rack.
The spear felt too distant; the dagger, too frantic. But when his fingers brushed the hilt of a practice arming sword, something clicked. He felt the center of gravity align with his own.
He opened his eyes, his grip tightening. "I choose the sword, Dad."
A proud, knowing smile touched Froyd's lips. It was the choice of a strategist—the same way Rune approached his books.
"A fine choice. But understand this: from this moment on, while we are within these walls, you will not call me 'Father.' I am your instructor. You will address me as Sir, to strip away the comfort of family and forge the discipline of a soldier. Understood?"
Rune straightened his back, his expression hardening. "Sir! Yes, Sir!"
"Good. Watch closely. The foundation of the blade is built on two pillars: The Strike and The Guard."
With a sudden, explosive grace, Froyd moved. The air hissed as he demonstrated. "The attacking stances: Chop, Pierce, Sweep, and Cleave!"
Swoosh… swoosh… swoosh… swoosh…
"And the defensive response," Froyd continued, his blade dancing in a protective arc. "Intercept, Twist, Parry, Draw, and Sheath."
He came to a halt, the tip of his blade perfectly still.
"Combined, these allow you to adapt to the chaos of the fray. Now, you have seen the forms. You have noted the flow. You will perform one hundred chops. Speak to me only when the task is complete."
Rune's eyes widened. "A hundred?! Sir?"
Froyd's gaze was like iron.
"In this arena, you do as you are told. Questions are for those who have finished their work. Begin."
"Sir! Yes, Sir!"
And so, under the rising sun of Midgard, the silence of the morning was replaced by the rhythmic, grueling sound of a boy swinging a blade—over and over—until his arms burned and the world narrowed down to the edge of his steel.