The pale light of dawn broke through the endless horizon, casting long shadows over the snow. Callan awoke before the others, his body stiff from the cold night, but his mind sharp and filled with a new resolve. He could feel the weight of the choices that had been made, but with each passing moment, that weight was shifting from one of guilt to something else—something harder, more purposeful. He had to be stronger. He had to be better.
The men—Rhenar, Galar—had seen something in him. Perhaps they had recognized the fire that burned beneath his hesitation, the potential buried in the uncertainty. But it wasn't enough to merely be seen. He had to be more. He had to prove himself worthy of their respect. No more hesitation. No more doubting himself.
He felt like a burden, a petulant child who always whimpered and sniveled away by the world.
Callan moved away from the campfire, his thoughts a whirlwind of purpose and determination. The air was biting, but it only sharpened his resolve. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he made his way to an open patch of ground, far enough away from the camp so that the others wouldn't notice him, but close enough that he could hear the crackling of the fire if he needed to return. He wasn't about to stop, not now.
His breath misted in the frigid air as he knelt and pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. This wasn't the same kind of training he had done before. It wasn't about what he knew or what he had been taught. This was different. Galar had shown him, in the heat of battle, how he moved with precision, how he stroke with intent and lethal power. And now, Callan would push that training to its limits. He would train harder, fight harder, until his body screamed for release and still, he would not stop.
He gripped his training sword—the one that had felt so foreign in his hands when he first picked it up—and squared his shoulders. He was going to do it all. The footwork, the stances, the fluidity. Galar had not shown him the basic forms, how to handle himself with a weapon. But now, in the quiet of the wilderness, Callan would pratice. He would push his body beyond its limits, make it obey his will without hesitation.
Callan took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the world around him. He began with the footwork, shuffling forward and backward, pivoting left and right. His movements were slow at first, deliberate, as his body struggled to recall the precise steps. It was exhausting, but he didn't give up. He wasn't a child anymore. He would not falter. Each step grew quicker, more confident, and soon his feet were moving like clockwork, his body responding to the rhythm of battle, even though no one was there to fight.
Next, he began with the strikes. The first few were weak, clumsy. His arms ached from the effort, his wrists and elbows stiff with tension. But he kept swinging, over and over, until the blade felt more familiar to body. He focused on the precision of each movement, on hitting his invisible opponent with deadly accuracy. His muscles burned, his legs shook with the effort to hold the stances, but still, he didn't stop.
I can think all I want about what's right, Callan thought, but the world won't change because of it. The world is cruel. It's cold and unforgiving. And I know nothing about it.
His thoughts shifted, a twinge of frustration rising in his chest. It felt like the longer he spent out here, the less he understood. He wasn't just some innocent, naive boy anymore. His hands were stained with blood, the lives of others lost to his actions. What could he possibly know about survival in this world? What was he really capable of?
The harsh wind bit at his face, snapping him out of his thoughts. Callan gritted his teeth, shaking the doubts away. He had to stop thinking like that. He had to stop wondering. The world was already harsh, and no amount of pondering would change that. The truth was, it was just him, alone with these men, struggling to make sense of what came next. But the answer had become clearer with each passing moment.
I will trust them, Callan decided, the thought as firm as the strike he delivered with the sword. I will trust these men beside me—Rhenar, Galar—because they have already shown me the way. They have the strength I need. They know what it takes to survive. If I want to live, if I want to truly become something… I have to work for their approval. I will earn their respect.
Each strike felt stronger now, sharper. The fatigue in his body became an afterthought, his movements focused, controlled, as if they were born from sheer will and grit rather than thought. With every muscle pushed beyond its limits, he felt something inside him harden—something new, something better.
The sweat beaded on his forehead, stinging his eyes, but still, Callan didn't stop. His body screamed in protest, but his mind was clearer than ever before. He didn't have all the answers, and he wasn't sure he ever would. But the one thing he knew for certain was that he wasn't going to be weak anymore. He wasn't going to be the boy he had been.
The world won't bend to me, Callan thought, his grip tightening around the sword. I'll bend to the world. I'll become a weapon. I'll make them see me. And I'll make sure I never falter again.
The sounds of his breath and the clash of his training sword against the air filled the quiet morning. He fought against his own weaknesses, against the uncertainty that clung to him, against the sense that he had never truly belonged in this world. Slowly, steadily, he could feel the change happening. His strikes were more fluid, his body more coordinated. The sword no longer felt awkward or too heavy. It was becoming part of him, just like the blood that stained his hands.
Callan's strikes grew more fluid as he moved through the motions, the sword now feeling less foreign in his hands with each passing moment. His muscles burned with the effort, but there was a part of him that reveled in it. This was no longer about simply surviving. It was about proving something—proving to himself, to Rhenar, to Galar—that he wasn't just a burden. That he had the strength to be part of this world. To be useful.
But just as he began to feel the rhythm of his movements, a voice cut through the cold air, startling him.
"Are you having a seizure?" Galar's voice rang out, high and gruff, and Callan froze mid-strike. His breath caught in his throat.
Galar was standing by the edge of the camp, his arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face. Callan, still panting from the exertion, glared at him, the unexpected comment stinging more than he expected.
"What?" Callan's voice was sharper than he intended, his pride flaring at the mockery in Galar's tone.
Galar's lips twitched, as if he were holding back a smirk, but there was no malice behind his words. Instead, it was… amusement? For the first time, Callan caught a glimpse of something in Galar's hardened expression—something that resembled a joke. But it didn't reach his eyes, which remained as cold as ever.
"You're swinging that sword around like you're trying to start a fire with it," Galar said, his voice more playful now, a hint of laughter escaping as he shook his head. "Thought I was gonna have to run over and make sure you weren't having some kind of fit."
Callan's cheeks burned, though he would never admit it. He wanted to snap back, wanted to defend himself. But something about the way Galar spoke—something about the dry humor in his words—made Callan hesitate.
"You never showed me," Callan muttered, though the words felt weak in the face of Galar's quiet amusement.
Galar's expression shifted. His eyes darkened, his smile fading. "You never asked me to," he said, his tone taking on a serious edge. "You're out here flailing about like a blind man with a sword. Training isn't just about swinging it around. It's about precision. Control. Breathing." He walked toward Callan, his footsteps heavy in the snow.
Callan opened his mouth to protest, to tell him that he had been training on his own, that he didn't need help. But before he could, Galar was already standing next to him, his gaze steady, almost patient.
"First," Galar said, "you have to learn how to hold the sword properly. Not like a club. Like it's a part of you."
Callan watched as Galar held out his own blade, demonstrating the way to grip it, his hands firm but relaxed. He wasn't just holding it; he was letting the sword become an extension of his body. Callan's fingers tingled with the knowledge that he hadn't been doing that before.
"Like this," Galar said, his hands guiding Callan's grip. "Loose enough to move, but tight enough to control it. Feel it. Now your arm isn't just swinging—you're directing it."
Callan mimicked the grip, trying to match the way Galar held the sword. His fingers ached slightly, but it felt more natural than the death grip he'd been using before. Galar's eyes were keen on his every movement, his focus unbroken. There was no scorn in his gaze, only the cold observation of a man who had seen too many battles to waste time on anything but precision.
"Now, breathing," Galar continued. "You can't move without it. Most men think it's all about the strike, but if you don't breathe properly, you'll tire yourself out before you land a blow."
Callan's brow furrowed, but he was listening now, truly listening. He was used to taking in only the barest instruction, but something about Galar's presence, his quiet authority, made Callan want to be better.
"Deep breaths," Galar said, demonstrating with a slow, controlled inhale. "In through the nose, deep into your belly. You hold it as you strike, then exhale slowly with the motion. Control your body and mind with every movement."
Callan tried it, taking a deep breath, focusing on his lungs expanding as he gripped the sword tightly. The air felt cold and sharp, but as he exhaled and moved, he felt a shift. The strike wasn't just a random act anymore. It was more. It was purposeful. Controlled.
Galar nodded, though his expression remained as serious as ever. "Good. Keep it slow. Build it up."
Callan could feel the change already. His movements became more fluid, less frantic. He no longer felt like he was trying to wield the sword with all his might. He was learning to move with it, to let it move through him, instead of against him. For the first time, he felt a sense of rhythm in his body.
"You're still thinking too much," Galar said, cutting through the moment like a blade. "Let the thoughts go. The world doesn't care about your doubts. Focus on the rhythm."
Callan's teeth clenched, but he obeyed. He breathed. He swung. It was slow at first, but it felt right, like something clicking into place.
For a while, they worked in silence, with only the sound of Callan's blade cutting through the air and the quiet, rhythmic breathing filling the space between them. Galar didn't rush him, didn't push him harder than he could take. He just observed, giving small corrections here and there, his eyes sharp.
Callan wasn't sure how long they trained, but when Galar finally spoke again, the sun was rising, casting pale light across the snow.
"Alright, that's enough for today. You're still a long way from being where you need to be, but you're getting better." Galar's voice was less harsh now, though it still held that stoic edge.
Callan stood still for a moment, his breathing steady, his body sore but satisfied. He had been pushed further than he thought possible. And despite the soreness in his limbs, despite the doubts still lurking in the back of his mind, there was a sense of accomplishment.
He wasn't the same boy who had arrived in this wilderness, unsure and untested. He had learned, and with every lesson, every strike, he was becoming more.
"Thanks," Callan said quietly, still holding the sword in his hand.
Galar gave him a glance, his lips quirking slightly. "Next time, ask before you start swinging like a madman."
Callan chuckled, a small, dry sound that felt foreign on his lips. But it was a start. He wasn't just a burden anymore. He was learning. And he had a long way to go. But he wasn't alone in this.
As Galar walked back toward the camp, Callan stood still for a moment longer, watching the snow fall around him, feeling a sense of something settling within him. He was part of something now. He had a place here.
And he was going to prove it.