The waning days of winter were quick to pass, bringing the promise of spring and renewal to the nation of Sylvee. Being of the middle-north portion of the Pact of Aeon, Sylvee, and its respective settlements, were host to the extremes of all seasons. Heated summers and frigid winters were what befell the land, with Autumn and Spring being the only seasons a reasonable man would find kind to the body. Days, once short and shallow, stretched longer with each passing week, dethawing the frost and snow covering the ground to truly herald the end of the tundra season. The trees, still dark and dormant, would take quick to the change in temperature, and bud with life anew. All in time, however. For now, the cold was still present in the land.

Ander, with a pelt strung about his back, and a cup of tea nestled in his hands, sat on a large rocky outcrop looking over Thrassing’s Valley. The stone belonged to the cliff his new home was dug into, and it provided him with an excellent view of the rising sun in the east. Echelons of clouds loomed above the young man, with the yellow gleam of the distant sun painting over them a varied mirage of colors, both warm, and some cold. As always, he had his coveted choir of risen birds to serenade the moment as he sipped his tea in solitude. It was his morning ritual to escape the stronghold and watch the dawn of every new day. With a month separating the present and his first appearance at the stronghold’s door, a great deal had changed. His form, once tattered and stripped of weight, had filled out some under the guise of the gang, bringing him renewed strength. His time beneath his coats and old blue nightwear were gone as a great deal of clothes had been afforded to him, thanks in large part to the generosity of his new brother-in-arms, Damien.

A particular group, they are, and drew from his tea, enjoying the warmth gifted to him by the bear pelt on his back. While they could be harsh and unforgiving, and downright cruel, the thieves weren’t evil at heart. Did they lack honor and constitution? No doubt. But it never came from malice, or hatred. Their view of life was ‘in order to survive’, and thus sprung their twisted choices. It was a relief to learn that, in all their years, they had only ever made four witnesses, with two of them being Nallia, the Nyx woman, and Damien. The fate of the fourth was unknown, but as the man had never begged to join, he carried with him no knowledge of the group, and such was little threat to their secrecy.

In no way were they righteous people, at most they were neutral. At most. They stole from others to aid themselves, and thought nothing of what their larceny might bring about. While they did only steal from the wealthy, they were also absolute in their secrecy. None would ever learn of who they were, nor what they looked like. They were so hidden and veiled in shadows, in fact, that they went by no name. There was not a man who knew of the thieving clan, which was the result of the tireless effort of their leader, Sylas. Above all, that man devoted himself to keeping his siblings alive. There was no shared blood between any of the members, but it mattered not. Family is what they were, and with every step they took, they had their kin to cover their trails.

Family…

With each passing day, that one word bore ever more pain for the young Idris. To live amongst such comradery was misery, in truth. All of the members had endured suffering, as he had, but in no same magnitude to his. The core four: Sylas, Bella, Leon and Thaddeus, were the closest. He wasn’t sure, but from what he had picked up on, he assumed they were all from the northern orphanage, the same one Nina had come from. Like the silver-haired maiden, they were kicked out onto the street, and with time they grew to become thieves. There they came across a wandering Nyx, far from her home in the mountains and isles of Arbora. Born of the Shadowfang lineage, it was a mystery as to why Nallia had come to the land of Elyon when so much was promised to her at home. Nonetheless, she was a valued member of the group, and her venomous affection for the younger archer only served to make her stranger. The sixth member was the homeless Damien, who had only been with the gang for a few seasons prior to Ander’s arrival, having taken up apprenticeship under Thaddeus in archery.

None of their lives were easy, but none of them had watched their life blaze away in an inferno, or witnessed their love succumb to the cold. His past made it hard to form any real relationship with the group, no matter how they treated him. The lady magii, Bella, despite being cold on the outside as they all were, was a kind spirit in her heart. It was thanks to her that he had regained his strength, yet he found himself unable to connect with her, nor any of them. How could he ever come to feel for another, when everything he loved was destined to die?

He put down his tea, and drew from his pocket the folded up portrait. Its colors and features were as grand as the night he was given it. His parents’ stoic looks, Elara’s infectious smile, and the general warmth of the visage brought sickness to the boy’s stomach. The last of his love was placed in the painting, and it was unlikely he would ever cultivate more.

“Ander!”

Leon’s voice called from afar, but the waves found no council in Ander’s ears. The boy continued to admire his artwork even as the growing sounds of footsteps loomed near, and eventually right behind him. A sigh was let loose from the swordsman’s lips, which dragged the younger man out of his distant state.

“What’s that you’ve got?”

Ander was quick to hide the parchment, stowing it in his pelt to hide from Leon’s curious eyes. “I-It’s nothing! Just a piece of hide.”

“Is that the same piece you had the night you showed up?”

“So what if it is?”

“I don’t mean to meddle, don’t mind me,” Leon took a step back, digging his thumbs beneath the hem of his belt.

“But I do mean to take you somewhere.”

“Take me where?”

“You’ll find out when we get there. Now up! This isn’t for negotiation.”

With reluctance, Ander rose to his feet, dusting off the bear pelt tied around his neck. The piece was actually prepared by the very swordsman standing before him, having made it not so long after he arrived a month prior. Made from the skin of the bear he felled, it was a thick piece, and brought its wearer much warmth and comfort.

“Shall we?”

The two began their amble down the wooded incline bearing the rocky cliff, meshing into the line of great trees and thick ferns parallel to the edge of the outcrop. The forest, much like it was every morning, was alive with avian song and foodland creatures, securing amongst the underbrush and up the scales of the mighty woods. It was a forest of many kinds, home to a number of oaks, pines, beeches, shagbarks, and above all, Ander’s favorite: the dogwood. With but a few months before its branches were flooded with pleasant white blossoms, it was nonetheless beautiful even when dormant. They were scarce in Vern’s Forest, but when one was found, it was a delight for the boy. Without much duties around the stronghold, he was free to roam about, regaining his grip on the concept of freedom. For so long, he had been under the tyranny of the alleys. But no longer.

“Do you care for the wild, Ander?”

“What’s that?”

“I asked if you cared for it? The woods, the birds. You seem to slip off whenever convenient. I know for certain that these walks best any road in Vimbaultir in beauty. I say this with experience.”

“That they do,” Ander spoke in a low voice.

“Yet you still haven’t answered my question?” Leon looked back, his brow furrowed. “I understand being closed off, I do. I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, Ander, and it doesn’t help that you’re so… disconnected.”

“My past is my own,” the young man pulled the bear cloak further around his body like a barrier to the forest. “It does not concern the present.”

“The past always concerns the present, and the future. But it does not have to be a burdening concern.”

“Then my burdens are my own, is that clear enough?”

Leon shook his head, looking up at the sunlight peeking through the overhanging canopy of the woods. Even Damien wasn’t this walled off when he arrived last summer, and within a couple weeks time, the boy found home in the clan. The swordsman could only pray Ander found the same fate.

“They don’t have to be, that’s my point. What do you wish to achieve by keeping all the pain to yourself?”

“And why do you care, why do any of you care.”

“Because… Ander, because we were you, that’s why. Your shoes were once our own, we know what it’s like to trek with feet burdened by heavy chains. You need not walk as you do now.”

“...”

“Are you afraid that speaking of it will only make it worse?”

“...”

“You'll be no less measure of a man if you seek company, Ander.”

“...”

“Well, perhaps another time.”

The rest of the walk was captive to silence, shedding no noise other than the crunching of brush beneath the soles of their feet. The path they walked on was narrow, and winding through the deciduous forest for miles far beyond the stronghold’s distance. It rose slightly above the rest of the forest and was bordered by withered ferns and small protuberances of stone. Boulders of granite were layered throughout the environment, bearing patches of moss - the only green of the hibernating forest.

After a short while, the slope of the path evened out, and the aged stone brick walls of the stronghold began to creep through the woodland screen. There was much to the encampment other than the main keep. Outside the doors was a courtyard, which held several stone structures and even a tent pitched by the gang. To the left of the entrance was the wide stables where they housed their steeds, which ran in length to mesh with the forgery. Opposite to all of this was the large white tent - made to house whatever was deemed miscellaneous - and the exterior of the keep’s cache, where the food and provisions were stored.

The pair paced around the stone wall, and came about the two looming doors of the front gate. Save for the night of Ander’s arrival, the two doors were always locked at dusk, and levied open at dawn. It was uncommon for any man to wander this deep into the forest, and even so, there wasn’t a soul who cared much about a crumbling and irrelevant military fort. Thus, the group had no worries about strangers meandering inside the fort, except for those who wished to join, that is.

Ander followed Leon through the slit between the doors and into the main courtyard. The ground, still wet from morning frost and the rare bits of dirty snow still clinging to the earth, was muddy, and stuck to their heels as they moved over it. They passed over the tent, and made their way toward the forgery. Before he entered, Leon took a moment to rub the hide of his red-dun horse, Gūllen. The beast, like the swordsman, was muscular, and of great stature. The stallion was delighted by its master’s affection, and huffed in appreciation. Ander’s chest tightened as he watched. The ease with which Leon offered affection to the creature felt like a foreign language to him. Love, after all, had long since been beaten out of him.

Leon, in all honesty, looked much alike the young Idris. Both of them had golden manes, although the elder male’s hair was longer, and had more volume. Their eyes shared a green color, but Leon’s were brighter, and could stare into your soul or straight through you, depending on what he wished. It took no great length of time for Ander to see his aspirations incarnate in Leon. Everything he had once hoped to be was standing before him. But no vision of the future resided in the younger man’s mind. His dreams had died long ago, and the luxury of greatness had perished with it.

“Who’s the fastest horse of the lot? Who's the fastest horse of the lot!” The man smiled at his horse, who was nudging the man with the side of its head. “I’ll get you some feed in a minute, Gūllen. Ander, through here.”

Leon motioned toward the forgery to their right, whose entrance promised a dark and balmy interior. Ander followed his command, and entered the workshop, shedding his black pelt to hang on a nearby rack, as did his peer who followed behind him. In days long forgotten, the place had been filled with ash and smoke all-day round, but now it found use only on occasion. In absence of any flames, the structure ran cool, warmer than the outside air, but in no way hot, or uncomfortable. Yet the smell of charcoal was etched into the walls, which were painted black through use.

“Have you been in the forge yet?”

“No, I haven’t,” he replied, running a finger down the length of a nearby wall. His digit left a trail through the black coating.

“This is where we do weapon upkeep, as well as general forging. Anything metal related that breaks, or needs studying up, we bring it here.”

“...Okay…”

“Going by your, how may I put this, disinterest, may I assume you know not of today’s importance?”

“I do not.”

“Great, that means I get to tell you, have a seat.” Leon motioned towards an old wooden stool beside the hearth. The younger man took up the seat, adding more to the difference in height.

“You’ve been here for about a month, Ander, and it’s done you well. You’re not the same bag of bones I carried over my soldier in an alleyway, that’s for certain… The night you arrived, the six of us, or more specifically me and Sylas, debated over what to do with you.”

“My kin have made it a habit to remind you that by coming here, you took an oath to become one of us. A thief, an outlaw, whatever term you wish to don. It was decided on the night you came here that you would take up under me, and my chosen art. We didn’t wish to put a burden on you that your body couldn’t bear, and so we put it off until your strength came back to you. But now that you can bear it, you are to begin your apprenticeship. Am I understood?”

“You are,” Ander returned in a soft voice.

“Great. Ander, what I am about to say, you must not forget. You are listening, yes?”

“I am.”

“Okay. I will be your mentor. I will teach you all I know about the sword, and its uses. I will mold you into one of us, but this will not be an easy trial. There will be hardship, and it will take great attentiveness, and effort on your part. You are to put your full faith in me, and not question my lessons, nor my commands. All I instruct you to do, you must do in earnestly, and to completion. Is this understood?”

“I-I understand,” he stuttered, but only briefly.

“What I am about to tell you, I wish you not to repeat to the others, even though they already know it. What we do, as a clan, is counter to what I teach you. The sword can only be swung by deft hands and an honorable heart. While our trade may not be righteous, our hearts may differ, and they must if we are to follow this path. But this choice will bear extra burden. You know this well: the night we left you in the forest. Though it was by necessity, it was wrong, and it tarnished us. In your time here, you will be forced to act against what is right. But when possible, you must do what is right, always. It is often our will to do what is easy, and unjust, rather than hold ourselves to what is right, and honorable. Do I make myself clear? Will you follow my teachings with honor in your soul?”

“...What if I don’t know what is right, and what is wrong?”

“What if you do not know? That is a fair question, Ander,” Leon turned his back to the boy and paced the length of the hearth. “Such choices are often made with haste, as time is never in abundance… I, ahh, how may I phrase this? Ander, your query is made more difficult with how little I know of you, so let me say this. Mastery of the physical is not all you must seek. It is mastery of your soul, and your compassion, as well. To hold honor, you must know when to kill, and when not to. Look here.”

From Leon’s belt, he unsheathed his longsword, holding it out with his right hand to stand with its tip toward the ceiling. The blade demanded admiration. Along its sides glistened the polishing of its sharp edges, and up the length of the fuller was a line of blacker steel, bringing character to the weapon. The hilt was black, as was the leather of the grip, and the circular pommel below it. Even though it was held with one hand, it could fit two with room to spare.

“This is my sword. It was not I who made it, but a blacksmith from Vimbaultir. When he forged me this blade, even though I approached him as a shady character, he gave me advice that I will never part from, he said -

‘This sword here, boy, is much more than a weapon, you hear? It was made fer killin, and stabbin, just as much as it was made fer sparing, and sheathin. It’s up to you now what it’ll do, ‘member that.’

- he was vague with what he said, but what he meant was that a sword is not made with a purpose. It is its master who must choose what to do with it. While one may use a sword to cut someone down, another may use one to spare that same person. Honor is knowing when to show mercy to a man when he is beaten. But again, sometimes one has no choice but to take a life, for a good cause, or another.”

“To answer your question, with time, and temperance, you will learn what is right and what is wrong. It will become your nature to know, so have faith in me, and in yourself, and in my teachings.”

“I will have faith,” Ander looked through the darkness into Leon’s eyes, which beamed an emerald glare. “I won’t go back to the streets, or the alleys… I wish to learn how to wield a sword!”

“Hah, that’s the spirit!” Leon bellowed, sheathing his blade. “But that will not come today, nor tomorrow, nor next week. No, no, before you learn to use a sword, you must learn to care for a sword.”

“Care for a sword?” Ander raised an eyebrow at the notion.

“Yes. You must learn to care for a sword as you would care for your heart. There will come a time when your blade will be just as important as your heart, or your mind, or whatever other thing you need to live. It will save you, more times you will ever feel comfortable with. And such, before you throw your first swing, you must know everything about your sword, and perfect it.”

Leon walked behind Ander toward a corner of the forge. From the corner opposite to the furnace, there rose a ruckus of clanging and bangs, before a long *shiiing* rang out. The older man reappeared in front of Ander holding a rather dull looking sword. Unlike his, this one appeared short, only the length of Ander’s arm. It had only one cutting edge, and it grew in width from the hilt up until the tip. The young Idris had absolutely no knowledge of the makes of swords, nor their names. But even with what little he knew, the boy could only imagine such a sword was used for slashing, and not stabbing.

“This is a falchion, and a rather poor one at that,” Leon looked over the sword. “It’s a bit rusted at the tip, the handle is worn, and its edge couldn’t dent a twig. It’s perfect, here.” Leon held out the blade to Ander, who took it with cautious hands.

“

“This is what’s called a Falchion, it’s Svartari for sickle if you were wondering, don’t ask me why. It’s short, and somewhat heavy, so it's best for slashing, but it can stab if need be. When you swing it, its weight helps carry the arc, and it’s devastating against light to even medium armor. It has uses beyond combat, like cutting and other bits and bobs, it’ll do you well.”

The feel of the blade in Ander’s hands delivered Leon’s words all the more so. It was a different sensation than when he held Nina’s knife. The blade, though it was blunt and old, still carried a dangerous aura. Yet that aura was all of Ander’s making. He realized it would take an effort to keep his new mentor’s words in mind. The sword he held wasn’t made to hurt just as much as it was made to show mercy. It was up to him to wield it well, and that responsibility was a heavy one for the young man.

“Your first test will be to restore this sword. Don’t fret, I will teach you how to do it and I will walk with you as you work. But only your hands will touch it, and it will be a hard skill to master. Only when its blade is sharp, and its rust is polished, will you learn to cut with it.”

“And so I will learn to be a swordsman, like you?”

“Ahh, but this is the duty of a swordsman, Ander. I have already told you this, remember, there is more than just cutting and killing.”

“Y-yes, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Leon kneeled before him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Beyond the physical feel of his grip, there came a steadying force with the man’s touch. “Learn from every mistake you make, even the small ones.”

“I will,” Ander nodded, looking between the blade and his master. A new bond had been forged, but the hard shell about the boy’s core was left unbroken. Much was still to come in his lessons, but his receptiveness would be hindered by his isolation from Leon. The boy was torn, as he always was. All he could do was have faith in his master, and himself.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

Thrassing’s Valley, also referred to as the Valley of the Somber Green, was the cradle of the northern Brux river, which sprang from the Sea of Enkaai to the east. It was a vast network, spanning miles in width, hundreds of miles in length, and several dozen tributaries and outgrowths form the main valley. There was not a patch barren of trees or brush save for except for the large flow of crystal blue water bisecting the dale, thus rose the name Valley of the Somber Green. The river was a mighty branch, and while it flowed in great amounts, it was calm enough for vessels to row up stream. In fact, the capital city was not a week’s journey east of Vimbaultir, with hordes of ships always commuting between the two settlements.

One of the inlets that fed Thrassing’s Valley was Komer’s Run, a small, turbulent stream that bolted down the northern slope of the dale. It was one of dozens, buried beneath the stretching canopy of the Forest Vern. Winding this way and that, it just so happened to meet the edge of a cliff buried in the woods, creating a small waterfall over the stoney ridge. It was the very same cliff the thieves’ stronghold was carved into, with but a short walk separating the keep from nature’s perfect bath. Such was the place Ander found himself, and not without company.

While he was Leon’s apprentice, and the way of the sword was the path he sought, it was made apparent early on that he would study under all the thieves. Not all would have the same input in his journey, but it would be foolish to waste their wisdom. And so, in the afternoon of the day he began his tutelage, so did he begin his studies under the strangest member of the clan.

Nallia, the Nyx assassin of the clan, was a tough read for any sane person. To begin with, she was short, not standing taller than five feet. But there bore an atmosphere of authority around her. Nyx, being the Arbora made in the image of the Great Dark, were inky figures. She wore mostly black - although so did all the other outlaws - as was her mane a jet black, the cob it was. Her hair didn’t flow, rather it was curly and formed two horn-like figures atop her head, much like the antler crowns of the Álffs. A line of dark skin ran across her otherwise alabaster face, like a shadow forever cast on her visage. Her ears, though long and thin, were mostly hidden behind her hair, which was tied back with a thin strand of black headwrap. In all, she looked like a pleasant person; such a deceiving portrayal that was.

The two stood on the bank of a small pool formed by the waterfall of Komer’s Run, barefoot, as instructed by Nallia. The human of the pair had not the faintest idea why he was there, nor what he was supposed to learn from the woman. If he had been brought there for a reason other than instruction, based on what he knew of her, this might as well be an execution.

“Ander, what do you know of the Nyx?”

“Of the Nyx?” He thought, putting a hand on his chin. “Very little, I suppose.”

“Good, because what humans teach of my kind is often wrong,” she sighed, turning to face the waterfall. “The Arbora are a people of nature, Ander. My people were made by the gods to be beautiful in our acceptance of the living, and our knowledge of it. While most of said knowledge makes little use, there is some that is very powerful… Show me your hand.”

Ander obliged, holding out his right hand to the woman. The gray sleeve of his tunic caught on his cloak, and a portion of his forearm went exposed, as did the burns he wore there. The woman noticed this, and before doing anything further, she took his sleeve and pulled it over the black marks.

“This lesson is not of the past, not that I know yours,” she whispered just loud enough for him to hear. “Are you ready?”

“For wha- Ah, ahh!”

With speed too quick to pick up on, Nallia twisted his arm and pushed down on his palm, making him collapse to the ground in an instant. The pain was fresh, and it flourished as she pushed further into him. His arm was locked out and held in a way that torqued it to no end.

“As we learned more about the creatures of the earth, we learned what brought them strength, and what took that strength away.” Ander continued to reel on the ground under Nallia’s assault. “We learned how to combat those stronger than us. We mastered combat without weapons, the ultimate way to fight. What I do to you now is a very, well, it’s a very simple way to make someone hurt.”

“I see that!” The boy cried out. “I see that! Now may you stop?”

“Certainly,” she beamed, releasing him with an ear-to-ear grin. It wasn’t a smug smile, and if he didn’t know better, he would have thought she was truly happy. His wrist burned with pain even after she let go, like the joint there had been twisted out of use.

“Must you have done that?”

“I’ve learned it’s best to show someone our arts rather than describe them. Stand up.” Her grin faded in a flash as she bellowed the command for him to rise. “Leon may be the master of your sword, but I will be the master of your hands, and your feet. I’ve taught everyone else the way of the Nyx, and you are to be no different. You are to have faith in me, and not question my teachings, am I clear?”

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“You’ve made yourself quite clear, Nallia,” he mouthed, trying to hide the sting from his voice.

“Fantastic!” She exclaimed, going from stern to ecstatic in the blink of an eye. Truly, this woman was bizarre to no end. “Now, place your right leg forward, and bend your knee so you can’t see your foot.”

“H-How do I-”

*Slap!*

“Place your right leg forward, and bend your knee so you can’t see your foot!” She delivered a slap to the back of his head, making the boy wince. With the discipline, he was quick to follow her orders, entering into a terribly poor front stance.

“Hold your right hand out to your center, and keep your left hand held to your hip.”

“Y-yes,” he stammered, doing as he was told. He had no clue what his ‘center’ was, yet he still gave an effort. In total, the position felt weak to him, like he could be pushed over with a slight breeze.

“Move your back foot out a tad; your stance is too narrow.”

His bare foot scooted across the stones of the riverbed as he followed her command. It almost took his balance from him, but when it was said and done, he felt greatly more stable. Despite her lack of lucidity at times, her instructions did build upon whatever it was she was trying to teach. Her lesson was backed by the rush of the water falling behind them, picking up a thin veil of mist to linger at their feet. It was cold out, and so it was quite uncomfortable with his feet being bare, but with thought, he realized that was purposeful.

“Okay, do you see this,” Nallia stopped in front of his right hand. She looked at his poor fist, and then made one of her own. “Your fingers should make a right angle with the back side of your hand, this part, you see. A right angle, and your thumb is to be tucked over your fingers like so. There must be tension here, but not strenuous tension. When you are to hit something, your hand must be in line with your forearm, or the force will break your wrist. This is your center, by the way, remember it.”

She finished her monologue by pointing a finger into his chest in the spot just below his sternum. “This is your solar plexus, it is your center, and you are to hold your fist out where your opponent’s center is. If hit, it does a nasty business. Would you like me to show you?”

Ander flinched at her joyful eyes, shaking his head wildly as she grinned. “N-No thank you.”

“So be it,” she shrugged, moving his fist a bit to line up with his center. She went on to correct more of his stance: bending his knee further, the direction of his feet, the rotation of his torso and what not. It all came to a point as she approached his back and laid her hands on his shoulders.

“This is a problem,” she said clearly, “you’re too tight, relax your shoulders.”

“Hmh,” he nodded his head, doing whatever he thought relaxing his shoulders was.

“No, Ander, relax your shoulders.”

“...”

“Relax your shoulders.”

“Ahh…”

“I said relax your shoulders, damnit!”

There came a swift elbow strike from above into his right shoulder, promptly dropping the boy against the cold stones of the riverbed. The blow came out of nowhere, sharp and unyielding, and as he laid against the ground, wells of anger brewed in him.

“How can you be loose in battle if you're tense in training?”

He wished to lash out in confused rage, like a rabid animal was pleading to break free from the cage of his soul. But he pushed the urge down, and in humility, he pressed his hands against the ground and pushed himself back up.

“What are you doing!” There came a foot against his back, forcing him back down. “Who do you think you are, getting up? You should stay down, shouldn’t you?”

Confusion took hold of him again. What was she trying to teach? What lesson was made by forcing her student’s face into the ground? The anger returned, and even against her weight he continued to rise up.

“Stay down, you’re not allowed back up!” She raised her foot up, only to drive it back down against him. His body refused her actions, and little by little, he staggered to his knees, and then to his feet. Nallia’s actions ceased, and when the boy was stable on his legs, he looked up at the sly grin adorning her face.

“That is your first lesson. Your form and style will improve, but there can be no lessons without a foundation. Getting back up is your foundation, Ander, and if you were to ever forget-”

She stepped close to him, her eyes peeling with vicious intent. “-If you ever think about not getting up, I’ll gut you, you hear me? I’ll gut you, and no one will stop me!”

There came no response from the boy for a moment except for a set of staggered breaths. The seconds passed, and as they went, the power of Nallia’s glare subsided in his mind. Her threat, while certainly plausible, had no intention behind it. With a small smile, he replied.

“Thank you…”

“You’re welcome,” she flashed him a great smile before donning a serious glare. “Now, back to your stance! I have till sunset to drill this into you, right foot forward, knee bent!”

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

Day in, day out, Ander kept busy with his studies under his many masters. All had their bit of wisdom to share, and with such constant focus, time began to move out from under the boy. The last remnants of winter fled in a flash, and in time there began to echo the whispers of green life in the forest. Spotted fawns and sprouting ferns were common sights during the sunlight hours, as were the chirps of insects under the moon. The air, once frigid and dry, became more humid with every new day. No longer would frost form in fresh breath, nor were heavy coats needed to wander outdoors. Life was unthawing all about the wood, with the promise of a bountiful season in the near future.

With two months having passed since Ander’s first lesson under Leon, much had changed for the young man. For starters, he had proven his worth in reforging his blade. The tip of the falchion, having been rusted during its idle time in the forge, was ground off into a notch that ran from the tip of the blade down the unsharpened edge. Not only did such a change improve the durability of the blade, but it brought character to the weapon as well. The leather grip had been replaced using some of the bear hide from his kill three months prior, and the entire piece was shined and polished to perfection. His master found the work admirable, and took quickly to instructing the boy on how to wield the sword.

The lessons, at first, weren’t seamless. As Leon carried a longsword, teaching someone how to use a single-handed slashing instrument took some finesse. Where the longsword was exact and needed fine handling to strike, block and parry, the falchion used its weight in quick arcs and slashes. It could bind another blade, but blocking with it was risky business. So one day, Leon returned to the forge, and brought Ander a small punch shield for his empty hand. It was a long, thin piece designed to be worn on the user’s forearm, with a spiked side that protected his hand in addition to acting as a parrying tool. Being so small, it meshed seamlessly into his fighting style. The weight of his falchion, though light compared to other swords, would carry his attacks, and his shield would intercept and parry whatever was thrown back at him. The more they trained together, and the more the younger man learned, and the better apprentice he became. His mind was thirsty for knowledge, and his hands were eager to work. It didn’t take long for the lad to become a challenge for Leon in sparring, but never once did he come out a victor.

His lessons with Nallia, too, were filled with insight. Ander became comfortable in his own skin, and in using his bare hands to fight. Not only was he taught martial arts, but he was also shown a masterclass in how the Nyx mind functions. To put it plainly, they’re bizarre little creatures with great temperament, but ultimately, they make fine teachers. On one odd day, Nallia brought with her the intent to shed some light on the history of her tribe. Being raised as a peasant, the details of other species were unknown to him, so he listened. As it turns out, the Arbora were personal favorites of lord Tallon, god of light.

A particular god Tallon was. ‘The Watchman’ was he named, as not only did he have reign over light, but his sight extended to every corner of the realm. Nothing was hidden from him, and if Nallia was to be trusted, he could even see into the minds of mortals, and immortals as well. In the beginning days, the god of light, as with all the Luminaar, was entrusted with the creation of the mortal beings. Tallon was the sculptor of the Abora, with Shané, goddess of darkness, helping him split the mold into the Nymphs and Nyx. From there, he communed often with free creatures, and during a century-long stay in Arkkon, the land of the Arbora, he forged the first martial arts. The two clans of the Arbora learned much from the god, and admired how the combat style would so keenly predict other’s movements. When the light finally left Arkkon, the art split, with the Nymphs developing a defensive style, Tal’Frrya, and the Nyx forging an aggressive style, Tal’Karra.

Tal’Karra was the form Ander had been taught, and what he studied in, he excelled in. The words Mr. Etro had spoken to him so long ago had been proven true. Idle hands are the wicked’s playground, but work brought focus. Having but one goal in life - to train to become one of the thieves - he found great success in every venture he undertook. The wails of grief, while still inside of him, did not cloud his mind, nor tear his focus. It was a good distraction. But a distraction was all it was. His relations with the gang were still shallow, despite Leon’s constant attempts to bridge a connection. It wasn’t only Leon who tried to dig into the boy; all six made their attempts to learn about his past or, more broadly, anything about him at all. But none found success. He spent his downtime in solitude, or in practice of what he had been taught. It made him strong in body, but in mind, he was weak. One day, his studies would come to an end, and again would he have to face the terrors residing in him.

But that day wasn’t due for a while, and in the meantime, there was a new trial for him to undergo.

Flanked by the sights of blossoms and the chirps of birdsong, Ander walked a few paces short of Sylas, their ax-wielding leader. They had marched deep into Vern’s Forest, beyond The Buckony Pail and the lumbar storage of the Gardalis mill. It was a quiet walk, with neither of them shedding a word. The young disciple had not a clue as to why they were hiking through the woods, nor did he dare question the will of Sylas. Being a tall and brooding man, the ax bearer exuded authority. He wore his hair much like Leon's, which flowed to shoulder-length. But his was jet black, like a woolen cloak draped over the back of his head. It meshed well with the leather mantle he wore. The piece ran from his head all the way down to his heels, and it flared out at his collar. The middle of it was reigned in around his waist with a sturdy belt, along which his axes were hung. For the temperate air that flowed around them, it was surely a stuffy attire. He would have to adapt to the warmer season soon, but his shadowy style would certainly stick.

The path they took led to an open field, flowing with green stems, low brush, and vibrant flowers. White and red petals bloomed in the grass, bringing about the humming of bees and other pollinators. Winter had left hurriedly, and in its place beauty was free to blossom. The field was bordered by dirt roads, carved with the markings of horse hooves from years of service. It looked far too pristine to be tended to by nature alone, there was assuredly an owner to this plot living in Vimbaultir, or an adjacent town. When the pair reached the large glade, Sylas halted before the field.

“I wanted to show you this, Ander,” the man turned to him, his mantle flowing in the light wind. “This is a field I came across when we first took to the stronghold… Four years ago that was, or was it five? Either way, it’s quite a sight, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It is,” Ander mouthed.

His responses were always so shallow and disconnected, like there was never truly a soul beneath the young man’s visage.

“There is an old keeper of this lot. Beladier, his name is. He is a hermit of the forest, and come every spring, he often spends hours tending to this one plot. Pruning the flowers and pulling the weeds, watering the grass and whatnot. I’ve always admired his dedication to something so few people would ever know of.”

“Have we come here just to see it?”

“Are you listening to what I’m saying?” Sylas crossed his arms. “This is part of the lesson.”

“A lesson?”

“The lesson, more aptly,” Sylas corrected himself as he stepped closer to Ander. Being only a few days younger than sixteen, the young man was nearing his final height. With that being said, only an inch or two separated their statues, but Sylas’ projection was far greater. The black of his garbs and the stoic look he always wore. It all commanded authority. If it was a lesson I was brought here for, then why had he asked me not to take my blade.

“This field is beautiful for its flowers, which are tended to by the bees, who prompt the growth of the flowers and so on. But none of this would be here without Beladier. There is a force that drives this field, even if it is not always shown. Leon and Nallia have taught you how to wield your hands, in defense, and in attack. So too have they hardened your mind, and instructed you with wisdom. But the hand and mind are but instruments. They are useless without a conductor.”

Sylas released a hand to jab a finger into the left side of Ander’s chest, right over his heart. “That conductor is your heart. It is your bravery, and your will. All of what you have learned is useless if your heart cannot command your hands, nor your mind. You are tempered by your heart, and through it you become a weapon. Do you understand?”

Ander nodded, looking between his firm face, and his pointing finger.

“Your heart runs on courage, and bravery. You must have these qualities in ample amounts to do what must be done. Without them, your heart stops, your mind clouds, and your hands slip. In the quickest of moments, the most severe of decisions are made. You must be swift with your courage, so that when your life is threatened, you can defend it.”

“With all of this being said, I have taken you out here - not only for a lesson - but for a test as well.”

“What am I to be tested on?”

A second of silence passed, with only the flow of the wind and the muted quire of the forest filling the air. Sylas looked up, then to the right of Ander, and then straight through him.

“You must show me..”

“... That you can kill.”

“GAHHH.”

The boy was thrown to the ground, dazed by the sudden force rammed into his side. From his right, there loomed a man, donned in a leather kit, garnishing a nasty scowl. The stranger appeared disheveled and crude, like a barbarian, but great blood lust was present in his eyes. He held no weapon, though on his belt there was hung a large knife, bordering on the girth of a dagger.

Sylas had stepped back, arms folded in the moment it had all occurred. But the ax man was nowhere present in the mind of the young man. Instinct took over him, and in an instant he was up, shaking slightly as the man sneered.

“You have to kill him, Ander!”

Sylas called to the boy, standing beside a nearby oak tree. Ander glanced at him, and then back at the man. What is this? His consciousness screamed. Who is this man? Why is Sylas so still? What is going on!

“This is a life or death scenario, Ander. You must kill him, or he will kill you!”

As the last word from the black-haired thief rang out, the man bolted forward toward Ander, throwing a hook punch to the side of his head. The young Idris ducked down into a short stance and threw a hand to redirect the hook, letting it pass by him with ease. When the attack flew by him, it left the man’s side open for a strike, yet none was launched from the startled boy.

“He was open, you have to strike back!”

There came another punch from the man, and another, and yet another. With every attack he pushed Ander back, who only continued to block the strikes. When enough displeasure welled in the man, he drew out his knife from his side, and held it up toward Ander.

“He drew his knife, Ander! Draw yours!”

It took him a moment to commit, but out came Nina’s knife, drawn in his shaky hand. The blade, having been cleaned of rust and sharpened, was a deadly instrument. But in Ander’s hand, he wasn’t so certain it was.

“Here he comes!”

The men slashed at Ander, who ducked back to avoid the knife. Continuous attacks came in his direction, forcing him back ever more until rows of trees entered his vision. He had been pushed off of the grassland and into the forest, and not a second later, his foot hit the bark of a large oak tree. He had run out of room to retreat, and so a wicked smile flourished on the man’s face.

He lunged at Ander, who threw his own knife to block the attack, locking blades with the man. They were right up against one another, grappling as their knives stood inches away from impaling their opponent. Despite his best efforts, the man’s blade began to move closer toward the young man's jugular, who did everything in his ability to halt its progress toward his neck.

“You need to stop him, Ander!” Called Sylas from afar. “He is going to kill you, you have no choice!”

“I'm… Trying!”

“You can’t try, you have to do!”

“Caw!”

The spring forest was gone, as were the blooming flowers and gentle hum of insects in the subtle wind. All around Ander there fell snow, grazing down from the clouds to land on his frail body. It was dead quiet, except for the rush of his beating heart, pumping rhythmically, a sensation he felt all about his body. Before him, in the snow, coated in red blood and entrails, there stood a large black bear, with its razor teeth barred, eager to rip him apart. Its claws glistened in the crimson moonlight that peaked through the canopy above, each one of the small blades hungry to tear into human flesh. The bear’s breath blew frost into the night as it readied to charge. But it never did. Time seemed to flow freely, but nothing further occurred.

Then, there came a call from the back of his mind, echoing endlessly in the snow laden wood.

I.

Will.

LIVE.

“Caw!”

“AAAHHHH,” letting loose a visceral roar, Ander kicked out the knee of his opponent, who reeled in pain as he stumbled back. The man, once masked in malicious aura, now appeared weak and fragile. Like a victim. Like prey.

Ander bolted forward to grab his neck before throwing him down to the ground, fire burning bright in his green eyes. Even as the man laid in the underbrush of the forest, ready to beg for his life, the boy didn’t yield his assault. Nina’s knife was raised into the air, and then plummeted down against the man’s flesh, tearing into it to spray blood on the neary tree. Breath escaped his opponent’s mouth as his eyes rolled back, yet the boy continued to stab. Further cries came from him as he grew ever more rabid, the tears of his eyes being thrown from his cheek due to his rapid movements.

“Ander, Ander!”

The words were lost to the boy as he kept stabbing, tearing the chest of the man apart, one wound at a time. Blood covered the front of the boy, as was there a growing pool of crimson on the ground the two fighters resided on. The knife wasn't all that came at the corpse. So too were there fists, and even elbows thrown at it. There came hurried footsteps from his side, followed by a set of hands that pulled him off the man or, more accurately, whatever was left of him.

“Ander, Ander!” Sylas screamed as the boy fought the axeman to fall back on the man. “It’s not real! It’s not real! It’s an illusion, it’s not real!”

“Ander!”

It was Bella’s voice who called to him as she ran out from the forest, having appeared out of thin air. She had been present during the entire journey, hiding behind a concealment spell by Sylas’ command to help test Ander’s capacity to kill. But the test, obviously, had spurred an undesirable outcome.

Seeing the woman, the young man’s thrashing began to subside. His cries, once rabic and straight with murderous intent, fell to low whimpers. When Sylas finally released him, he fell to his knees, holding the perfectly clean knife in his hand. Before him, the carcass of the man began to shine blue, before melting away into a display of light. In the end, it had just been an illusion.

“What the hell was that!” Bella pulled on Sylas’ shoulder, her face torn with anger. “I thought this was a test!”

“Don’t give me that! How is this my fault,” he swatted the woman’s hand away. “You were as much a part of it as I was!”

“That doesn’t expla-That doesn’t explain what happened!”

“Did I… pass?”

The frail voice rose from Ander, who had regained control over his emotions. Such a display was in no way what either of the thieves wanted from the boy. The outburst of rage and rabidness was in contrast to the image they had of him. Gone in that moment was his restrained, quiet persona, and out there appeared an animal, thirsty for blood. The same animal, one could reasonably assume, “...could kill a bear.”

“What’s that?” Bella asked in a whisper, turning her head back to Sylas.

“Ander, how about you start off toward home, alright?” He put on the gentlest voice he had available as he instructed the boy. “We’ll… catch up.”

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

“I tell you, I know what I saw!” Sylas slammed a mug against the wooden table of the stronghold’s dining hall, sending drops of mead flying from the rim of the cup. “Ask Bella, she saw the same thing!”

“Have we any reason to doubt this?” Came Leon, who sipped his own drink slowly. “We all saw the bear that night.”

“It’s just hard to believe that-” Thaddeus threw a finger to point out a nearby window, which led to the outside courtyard where Ander was practicing his cuts, “-did everything you claimed it did.”

“He’s not an it!” Bella threw a dirty look toward the elder archer. “He’s a boy who’s been through a lot… Or so I assume.”

“We still know so little about him,” Leon shook his head. For being the lad’s master, he took it as a personal failure that his student was still so distant from him. Beyond his name and place of origin, he knew nothing.

“This doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” chimed Nallia, who for once was the optimist amongst the crew. “We all have our demons, but he did what was asked of him. With restraint, could this not be a strength?”

“That’s the problem,” a sigh escaped Sylas’ lips. “How can we restrain something that only comes out when he’s been pushed to a breaking point? Actually, scratch that, we can’t even be sure of what caused it. He was in a fight for his life for a solid minute, and it only came out at the very end. We know so little about him, that it’s impractical to even begin speaking about controlling that rage, or whatever you’re keen to label it.”

“Then one of us has to make a genuine effort to get to know him,” Damien, who was often found to be tight-lipped at the dinner table, spoke out. “More so than we already have.”

“I’ve been with him nearly a dozen hours every day, Damien. I don’t want to admit it, but even after all of that, I don’t feel like he’s opened up to me at all,” the rebuttal rose from Leon.

“But that was during his studies, he was focused on learning, not talking. Have any of us really sat down beside him, and just tried to pry a word out of him, with care, of course?”

“I did,” Bella retorted.

“To be fair, that was the day he woke up. He had no clue who any of us were,” Sylas found himself beginning to agree with Damien’s notion. “Perhaps one of us should try and approach him. Not during a lesson, but when he would be most open to a conversation.”

“How about right now?” Nallia asked as she swallowed a bit of her food. “We should send someone out now, shouldn’t we?”

“I’ll go.”

“No, Leon, it can’t be you,” Sylas waved his hand at the proposition. “He sees you as his master, a mentor. He’ll be the most tight-lipped around you, we need someone he won’t be nervous to speak to.”

“Nervous?”

“How about I go?” Damien made his voice heard. “We’re about the same age, aren’t we? I think I'd be best to reach him. We're the most alike.”

“By all means,” Sylas looked toward the heavy doors of the stronghold. “If you think you can make a breakthrough, be my guest.”

“It would be a great help, Dame.”

“Don’t cut yourself!”

Thaddeus couldn’t resist throwing a chide at the young man as he rose from his seat. With a quick glance to the denizens of the table, he straightened his garbs and made for the doors, pushing them open to blend into the evening air.

The courtyard, with the slaying of winter, had gone from a muddy pit to a green-scaped enclosure. Grass covered the soil, and pushed into the cracks and crevices of the portions of the yard paved with stone. The light, which was meddled with by the flowing leaves of the trees, fell upon the lot in secluded funnels. There ran a lukewarm breeze from the forest, gliding through the valley, sourcing most likely from the planes to the east. It was a pleasant view to be certain. The air held the scent of tree sap and the heavy smell of pollen.

It was not only supper time for the thieves, but for the steeds as well. The stables bore troughs of water, sourced from the falls of Komer’s Run, and next to them there laid bundles of leafy greens. The dividers had been raised to give all of the beasts a chance at the meal, and near the center of the stable there stood a salt lick, which was being tousled over by the horses. They longed for the salt like a tot whined for milk.

Beside the stables, next to one of the thick windows of the den of the stronghold, there stood a wooden stand. It held up a tightly wrapped bundle of straw, with cordage binding it together in many places. There ran a spike into the hay to hold it in place, keeping it an inch off the surface of the stand. In front of the stand, there was Ander, wearing a natural, focused look as he eyed up the straw mass. All around him laid the remnants of past hay targets, having been chopped cleanly with his blade. The whole setup was used to refine a swordsman's cut. If a man were to strike with his edge not perfectly aligned, he would find his blade bounce off the straw surface, or maybe dig an inch into the bundle if he were lucky. But if his strike were true, and hard, the dry fibers would stand no chance.

The blonde teen stood with his blade readied, its edge eager to rip into the stand. He was planted in a very shallow stance, with his right leg forward, and his left arm held behind his back. His punch shield was strapped to his stowed arm, probably there to keep him acclimated to wearing it. As the boy sucked in a deep breath, Damien watched as his sword lined up with the bottom left of the bundle. The blade lingered there for a moment, but in a blur, it cut cleanly through the straw's top, moving in a large arc. Ander’s footwork had shifted during the strike, letting his mass move with the blade, throwing his weight behind it. Damien had watched Leon practice cuts of his own, and objectively, Ander wasn't far behind, at least in his eyes.

“Nice cut,” he called, sitting down on a small brick wall that grew out of the wall of the stables. “You’re looking pretty deadly with that thing.”

“Deadly?” Ander didn’t turn to face him. “... I suppose that's what I'm going for, isn't it.”

“Yeah, funny how that is, isn't it?” Damien chirped. “Us, learning how to use weapons like we're soldiers, or heroes, even. All the while we pray we never have to use them.”

“True, that is,” Ander nodded. The apprentice again lined his blade up, and cleaved off another portion of the hay. Yet again, his cut was clean. There was a stiff atmosphere between the two, even with Damien’s attempted humor.

“I had to kill someone once… did you know that?”

The abrupt claim made Ander stir, if only a little.

“I have no stomach for it - killing. We're outlaws, but we're careful with who we steal from. Honor among thieves, yeah? We only nick from the people who steal from others, the real bad members of society, they are. Corrupt officials, merchants who prey on the underclass, rockweed smugglers, even. Bad men and all. And so one night… It's been almost a year, I reckon. Around the start of fall last year is when it happened. We were pulling off a job on the Everon group, a bunch of tariff-masters for Vimbaultir. They would extort farmers and the like by putting tariffs on them, forcing them to sell to their group at a lower price, which they would then pass off in Vimbaultir with an upcharge.”

As Damien spoke, Ander again sliced at the stack. *Slash* It was another clean cut.

“Anyway, we had pulled a good haul from them, a nice amount of coin; a clean heist as in we wouldn't have to sell off the haul for profit. But when we took off on horseback, they noticed us and gave chase. Now at the time, Cross, my horse, was pretty green, and slower than the rest. I began to lag behind, and when I did, I noticed one of the Everon ride up with a bow, and there was an arrow strung in that bow… I saw he had a good aim on one of us, although I forget who.”

*Slash*.

Yet another clean cut. There was a greater pause between this one and the last. Damien could see the empty hand behind Ander’s back tense up as he swung.

“I had a choice to make. I could do nothing, and one of us would die. Or I could use my bow to pick off the rider. The second I realized this, I got, well, I was nervous. My throat dried up, my heart, which was already racing, picked up its pace ten-fold. I was afraid my bow would slip from my hands, or I'd fall of Cross at the last second… But to be frank, it was no choice at all. The rider's arrow flew into the sky… and mine flew into the side of his skull.”

“I'll never get the image of his limp body falling off that horse out of my mind. Never in a million years. Nor will I ever regret that decision. Even in the heat of the moment, I know I made the right choice. And I think-I think that was all supposed to happen. I was still so fresh at being a thief back then. It shaped me, I know it did. I stand by my choice, but it's still, hanting…”

*Scrape*

Ander’s blade failed to slash through the pillar, rebounding against the fibers as his poorly-aligned blade flew.

“I'm not sure why I shared that,” Damien kicked his feet slightly over the edge of the short brick wall. “I came out here, I'll be honest, to try and reach out to you. To, I don’t know, learn something about you… Maybe I thought if I shared something personal about myself, you would be more open to responding. A silly idea, that was.”

Silence followed Damien’s words. The gentle breeze of the afternoon flowed through the yard, picking up the strewn bits of cut straw. After a moment, there was a muffled *shling* as Ander sheathed his blade. And then he spoke.

“I had a sister once…”

The young archer perked up at the boy’s soft words, softer than the enchanting blossoms of the trees of the forest. His tone was slow, and delicate, as if one wrong word would tear him down.

“Her name was Elara, and she was the most beautiful… the brightest, most… most incredible girl to ever walk this world.”

The blonde man's words dripped with sorrow and emotion. Damien dared not interrupt such a moment. He continued.

“And every day… I got to wake up, and I got to look her in the eyes…”

“And it made every day that much more worth it…”

Even from a distance, Damien could see the fingers of his distant friend begin to shake. He was coming undone.

“And… I would give anything… just to see those eyes… one last time,” his pitch slipped at the end of his final word, his voice breaking at the last moment. A hand flew to his mouth as his eyes closed, barring any emotion from running free. He tried desperately to stop himself from coming undone. The gods knew how many nights he had lost control before.

“But now, *hic* she's gone…”

“Hey, hey, hey, Ander.” Seeing darkness swell in him, Damien hopped off the brick wall to walk toward the boy, pacing up to stand beside him. As he did, Ander whipped around, and threw his arms around the archer, pulling him into a hug his friend hadn't expected. In no way had he imagined he would actually connect with the silent swordsman. Yet here he was.

“Hey, hey. You're okay, you're fine. It's fine.”

He spoke to him in calming words, helping Ander collect himself. It took a while, but eventually, he did, stepping back from the archer to heave a heavy breath.

“Hey, com'on,” Damien threw a hand on Ander’s shoulder. “Come inside. Let’s get you something to eat.”