The village of Briarwood was gone, its memory a scar on Gabriel’s heart. For weeks after the attack, Gabriel barely spoke. He wandered through the streets of Calen’s Crossing like a ghost, his eyes empty and his shoulders slumped. He would often find himself sitting by the town’s outer wall, staring off into the distance, toward where his home had once been, the sounds of laughter and the smell of fresh bread now replaced by the harsh cries of battle and the stench of smoke.

The townspeople of Calen’s Crossing took in the survivors, offering food and shelter to those who had lost everything. Gabriel was given a small room in a shared house with some of the other Briarwood refugees. Marta, ever the healer, tended to the physical wounds of the survivors, while Roderic joined the town guard, his eyes always scanning the horizon for signs of another attack.

Gabriel kept to himself, avoiding the other children and spending his days wandering the town or sitting by the wall. The other villagers were kind, but he felt like an outsider, unable to find comfort in their sympathy. His thoughts were consumed by the faces of the orcs, the heat of the flames, and the last moments of his parents. His mother’s words echoed in his mind: “Be strong.”

But Gabriel didn’t feel strong. He felt lost, angry, and afraid. At night, he was haunted by nightmares, waking in a cold sweat with the sound of his mother’s scream still ringing in his ears. He would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, his heart aching with the need to do something, anything, to take the pain away.

It was on one of these restless nights that Gabriel made a decision. He couldn’t bring back his parents or the village, but he could make sure that no one else had to suffer as they had. He would learn to fight. He would become strong. And one day, he would find the orcs who had destroyed his home, and he would make them pay.

The next morning, Gabriel went to find Roderic. He found the guard near the town square, helping the townsfolk with their morning tasks. Roderic’s face lit up with surprise when he saw Gabriel approaching, the boy’s expression more determined than he had seen in weeks.

“Gabriel,” Roderic said, wiping his hands on a cloth. “What brings you here? Is everything alright?”

Gabriel took a deep breath, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I want to learn how to fight,” he said, his voice steady. “Teach me to use a sword, like you and my father.”

Roderic’s eyes softened with understanding. He crouched down to Gabriel’s level, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Gabriel, I know you’re angry. We all are. But learning to fight isn’t just about swinging a sword. It’s dangerous. It takes time, discipline. Your father wouldn’t want you to—”

Gabriel cut him off, his eyes blazing. “My father is dead! They’re both dead! And I couldn’t do anything to help them!” His voice cracked, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m not going to just sit around and do nothing. Please, Roderic. Teach me. I have to be strong. I have to fight.”

Roderic sighed, his gaze drifting to the side, as if seeking advice from an unseen presence. He knew the pain Gabriel was feeling, the sense of helplessness. He had seen it in the eyes of many young soldiers over the years, and he knew that denying Gabriel would only drive the boy deeper into his despair.

“Alright,” Roderic said finally, his voice soft. “I’ll teach you. But you have to promise me something. You have to take it seriously. No recklessness. No running off to face danger on your own. Do you understand?”

Gabriel nodded, his expression resolute. “I promise.”

Roderic smiled faintly, ruffling Gabriel’s hair. “Okay, then. Meet me at the training yard tomorrow morning. We’ll start with the basics.”

The next day, Gabriel arrived at the training yard before dawn, eager and nervous. The yard was a simple space behind the guard barracks, filled with training dummies and a rack of practice weapons. The air was cool, the sun just beginning to rise over the horizon, casting long shadows across the ground.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Roderic was already there, waiting for him. He held two wooden swords in his hands, their edges blunt and worn from years of use. He tossed one to Gabriel, who caught it clumsily, nearly dropping it in his haste.

“First rule,” Roderic said, smiling at Gabriel’s eagerness, “respect your weapon. It’s not a toy. It’s an extension of yourself. Treat it with care.”

Gabriel nodded, gripping the wooden sword with both hands, trying to mimic the stance he had seen his father take so many times before. Roderic watched him for a moment, then stepped forward, adjusting Gabriel’s grip and stance.

“Feet shoulder-width apart,” Roderic instructed, tapping Gabriel’s legs with his own. “Knees slightly bent. Keep your weight balanced. Good. Now, hold the sword like this.”

Gabriel followed Roderic’s instructions, his hands shaking slightly as he tried to maintain the correct posture. The wooden sword felt heavy in his grip, awkward. Roderic moved beside him, demonstrating the basic movements: a high guard, a low guard, a simple strike.

“Practice these moves,” Roderic said, stepping back to watch. “Slow and steady. It’s not about speed right now. It’s about form. Once you have the basics down, speed will come naturally.”

Gabriel nodded, concentrating as he moved through the motions. High guard. Low guard. Strike. His movements were clumsy at first, but Roderic was patient, correcting him gently, offering encouragement. They practiced for hours, the morning sun climbing higher in the sky, the sounds of the town coming to life around them.

As the weeks passed, Gabriel’s training became a daily routine. He would wake before dawn, meeting Roderic in the training yard to practice. At first, his muscles ached from the unfamiliar exercise, his hands blistered from gripping the wooden sword. But he pushed through the pain, driven by the memory of his parents, the fire, and the orcs.

Roderic taught him more than just how to swing a sword. He taught him footwork, how to read an opponent’s movements, how to parry and counterattack. He taught him discipline, patience, and the importance of keeping a clear mind in the heat of battle. Gabriel soaked up the lessons, his skill growing with each passing day.

One morning, several months into his training, Roderic decided it was time for Gabriel to face a real opponent. He stood in the training yard, holding his wooden sword, while Gabriel faced him, his stance steady, his eyes focused.

“Alright, Gabriel,” Roderic said, his tone serious. “Today, we’ll spar. Remember what I’ve taught you. Keep your balance. Watch my movements. And don’t get reckless.”

Gabriel nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. He gripped his sword tightly, his muscles tense. Roderic moved first, a quick strike aimed at Gabriel’s side. Gabriel stepped back, bringing his sword up to block the blow. The wooden swords clacked together, the sound echoing in the yard.

Roderic pressed the attack, his movements quick and fluid. Gabriel struggled to keep up, blocking and parrying as best he could. He focused on Roderic’s movements, trying to anticipate his next move, just as he had been taught.

For a moment, Gabriel saw an opening. He lunged forward, aiming a strike at Roderic’s side. But Roderic was faster. He sidestepped, bringing his sword down to tap Gabriel’s shoulder, the signal of a killing blow.

“Dead,” Roderic said, smiling faintly as he stepped back. “You’re getting better, Gabriel. But you still have a lot to learn.”

Gabriel nodded, breathing heavily, his face flushed with exertion. He was disappointed, but he also felt a sense of accomplishment. He had held his own, even if only for a moment. He was improving.

Roderic clapped him on the shoulder, his smile warm. “Don’t be discouraged. You’re doing well. Keep practicing, and you’ll get there.”

Gabriel smiled, the praise filling him with a new sense of determination. He would keep practicing. He would become stronger. One day, he would be ready.

Months turned into years. Gabriel grew taller, his body lean and muscular from the hours spent training. His skill with the sword improved, his movements becoming fluid and precise. He sparred with Roderic often, each bout pushing him to his limits. He learned to fight with different weapons, a dagger, a bow, even his bare hands.

But no matter how much he learned, no matter how skilled he became, the memory of Briarwood never left him. It drove him forward, a constant reminder of why he fought. He trained harder than anyone, pushing himself beyond exhaustion, his body marked with bruises and cuts.

On the day of his sixteenth birthday, Roderic presented Gabriel with a real sword. It was a simple blade, the hilt wrapped in leather, the steel shining in the morning light. Gabriel took it with reverence, his fingers brushing the edge, feeling the cold, sharp metal.

“You’ve earned this,” Roderic said, his voice filled with pride. “You’re a fine swordsman now, Gabriel. Your father would be proud”