Early morning light slanted across Ashford Heath, illuminating its cottages and cobblestone lanes in hues of gold. Robert’s cane tapped against the stone in a steady rhythm, its sharp, deliberate sound cutting through the quiet village. Villagers paused in their routines—some bound for the fields, others tending market stalls—to watch him pass. His broad shoulders, weathered face, and scarred features had long commanded respect, but today his grim expression seemed to unsettle even the most familiar onlookers.

In his mind, he replayed yesterday’s argument with Michael. The boy’s wounded pride and the lessons left untaught churned in his chest, smoldering like embers in a forge.

Near the village green, Marcus caught sight of him. The tall councilman quickly strode toward his old friend, his frown deepening as he recognized the set of Robert’s jaw. Marcus, ever the diplomat, relied on soft words where Robert leaned on iron resolve. Yet, even he hesitated when Robert was like this—a storm on the horizon, impossible to divert.

“Rob,” Marcus called, falling into step beside him, his tone calm and measured. He raised a placating hand. “Where are you headed this fine morning?”

“To the academy,” Robert replied curtly. “They’ve turned our children into cowards, Marcus. I won’t stand for it.”

Marcus’s brow furrowed, his voice dropping to match Robert’s intensity. “I understand you’re upset, but storming in unannounced isn’t the way. Those teachers—”

“Have ignored every concern I’ve raised,” Robert interrupted, his grip tightening on his cane. The wood groaned faintly beneath his knuckles. “They’ve turned a place meant to raise defenders into a nursery for the timid. Enough talk behind closed doors. I’m done with their condescending excuses.”

Marcus sighed, recognizing the futility of argument. “Then at least let me come with you,” he said, hoping to soften the edges of what was sure to become a confrontation.

Robert didn’t reply but didn’t stop him either. Together, they approached the academy.

The freshly whitewashed building stood near the edge of the green, its glass-paned windows gleaming in the morning sun. Ivy crept along the beams, softening the rigid symmetry of its structure. To the untrained eye, it looked like a simple school. But this was Ashford Heath’s academy—a place designed not just for education, but to identify and train the gifted among the youth to defend the town and its citadel if the need arose.

Or so it had been. The scars of war had long faded, and peace had dulled its original purpose. The once-military academy had grown complacent, shifting its focus to academic achievement rather than combat readiness. And neither of the head instructors, Robert knew, had seen a single battle.

The heavy doors creaked as Robert pushed them open, revealing a spacious hall lined with desks and benches. At the far end, a group of teachers sat around a polished table, their robes pristine, their postures carefully composed. They turned as Robert’s cane struck the wooden floor, their frowns rippling through the group like a wave.

Robert wasted no time. “I’m here to discuss your policies,” he said, his deep voice echoing in the quiet hall. “You’ve turned my boy—and likely others—into fearful bystanders.”

Master Raleigh, the academy’s head instructor, rose from his seat with the slow, deliberate air of a man who valued decorum above all else. Slender and impeccably dressed, he smoothed the lapel of his embroidered vest, his silver pen resting in one hand like a scepter. “Good morning to you as well, Rob,” he said, his voice laced with exaggerated civility. “What, precisely, are you accusing us of?”

Robert leaned heavily on his cane, his dark eyes boring into Raleigh’s. “Your rules,” he growled. “This ‘zero tolerance’ nonsense that punishes anyone who stands up to a bully. You’ve taught them to freeze—too afraid of consequences to do what’s right.”

At this, a soft murmur rippled through the hall. Parents and students, drawn by the raised voices, began trickling in. Marcus’s shoulders tightened as he scanned the growing crowd, sensing the precarious balance.

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Mistress Helia stepped forward, her silken scarf brushing her shoulders as she addressed Robert with calm authority. “We teach these children to follow order and resolve conflict peacefully,” she said. “Rules exist for a reason, Robert. They foster reasoned discourse, not brute force. If we’re to rise above barbarism, it must begin here.”

Robert scoffed, his temper flaring. “Reasoned discourse? With bullies?” His voice carried the rough weight of battlefield truths, silencing the murmurs in the room. “If you cared about rising above barbarism, you’d teach these children to defend themselves properly. Instead of drills in the dirt and half-hearted exercises, they should be sparring—full contact. They should know what it feels like to take a punch or block a blade. What will they do when real danger comes? Write it a letter?”

A murmur rippled through the room, parents exchanging nervous glances as Raleigh straightened, his expression hardening.

“That’s enough, Robert,” Master Raleigh interjected sharply, his polished tone cracking under pressure. “This is not the army, and these are not soldiers. They are children, and we are educators—not drill sergeants.”

Robert ignored him, gesturing toward the doors. “Out there, you’ve got a yard perfect for training, yet you let it sit idle, growing weeds. How do you expect these kids to defend Ashford Heath—or the citadel, for that matter—if you keep coddling them?” His grip on his cane tightened, the scars on his hands stark against the worn metal. “The world isn’t as safe as you think. You’ve grown complacent. So have they.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Mistress Helia, her sweet facade slipping, stepped closer, her voice low but barbed. “Complacent, Robert? We have been charged with preparing the children of this village for adulthood but we are also responsible for their health and safety. You of all people should appreciate that!”

Robert froze, his eyes narrowing. The heat that so often burned in his presence drained away, replaced by something cold and sharp. His voice, when it came, was quiet—like the crack of ice underfoot—but it carried an unmistakable threat. “What did you say?”

Helia’s expression hardened, her gaze steady and unflinching. “If our policies had been in place, perhaps your son would be alive today.”

The room became as silent as a tomb. Not a whisper, not a breath broke the oppressive stillness. Parents glanced at each other uneasily, but no one dared to speak. Even the children sat frozen, their wide eyes darting between Mistress Helia and Robert.

Marcus stepped forward, his hand hovering near Robert’s arm. “Helia, that is enough,” he said, his voice heavy but soft, like a prayer spoken into a void.

Robert didn’t move. He didn’t so much as blink. He stood there, utterly still, staring at Helia. His presence was no longer fiery or volatile—it was glacial, as solid as ice. The prolonged silence stretched on and on in unbearable uncomfortableness and yet it continued.

When he moved at last, it was fast, too fast to see—a sharp crack as his cane struck the floor, splintering the polished wood. The sound was like a thunderbolt, jolting the room to life.

Mistress Helia let out a sharp, involuntary scream, the sound slicing through the oppressive silence. Her hands flew to her mouth as though she could claw the sound back, but her poise had already shattered. She stumbled back, knocking into the edge of the table as Master Raleigh stiffened beside her, his eyes darting between the broken floorboard and Robert’s unmoving form.

“Rob,” Marcus said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. But Robert shrugged it off, his breathing ragged as he fought to control himself.

He turned to the crowd, his voice low but razor-sharp. “Your children will be unprepared, just as we were. And when the day comes, the burden will fall to men like me—again. Except this time, we won’t be enough.”

Robert turned and pushed through the crowd, the villagers parting like water in the wake of his chilling presence. Their faces reflected a mixture of fear, pity, and unease. At the door, he paused, his hand resting on the frame as he turned back toward the room. His gaze lingered on Mistress Helia, piercing and unyielding, before sweeping across the silent onlookers.

“Betrayal never comes from your enemies. Damn fools will get us all killed,” he said, his voice low and cutting, each word falling like a heavy stone in the quiet hall. For a moment, the sunlight spilling through the doorway illuminated the jagged scars on his face, a stark reminder of battles fought and losses endured. Then, without another word, he stepped outside and vanished into the blazing light.

Inside, the teachers gathered around the splintered floor, their voices low and trembling. Mistress Helia clutched her scarf, her composure finally breaking. Master Raleigh straightened his vest with a trembling hand. “We must ensure the council hears of this,” he said quietly. “He’s a danger. A relic of a savage age.”

Marcus lingered at the door, his heart heavy as he glanced back into the hall. He had come to mediate, to bring understanding. But Robert’s pain, raw and unyielding, and Helia’s stinging words had only widened the rift. Ashford Heath, once a delicate balance of tradition and progress, now felt like a scale tipping dangerously toward fracture.