#### **Part 1: The Weight of the Blade**
Ethan walked.
The road to Valenhold was not a road at all but a scar carved into the earth by centuries of pilgrims, merchants, and fools. It twisted through forests choked with mist, skirted cliffs that dropped into oblivion, and vanished into marshes where the air tasted of rot. Ethan’s boots—stolen from a drunkard’s corpse the night he fled the slums—were already falling apart. The blisters on his feet wept into the leather, but he welcomed the pain. It was proof he was moving.
The sword, strapped to his back with fraying rope, felt heavier with every step. *A soldier’s gift*, he thought bitterly. *Or a curse*. It was a clumsy thing, its edge dull and its hilt wrapped in peeling leather. Yet when Ethan gripped it, he imagined Lord Eryndor’s hands on the same steel, his voice whispering: *"A sword is only as strong as the arm that wields it—and the heart that guides it."*
But Ethan’s heart was a storm. Hunger gnawed at him. Fear dogged his steps. And doubt, that sly serpent, coiled in his chest. *What if the academy turns me away? What if I’m just mud after all?*
He walked.
---
#### **Part 2: The First Blood**
Three days into his journey, the bandits found him.
They emerged from the mist like wolves—four men with rusted knives and eyes hollowed by greed. Their leader, a hulking brute with a beard matted by old blood, grinned at Ethan’s sword. “Nice toy, boy. Hand it over, and we’ll make it quick.”
Ethan’s fingers trembled. He had never fought anyone, never *killed*. But he remembered Jarek’s fists, the way the slums had taught him to bite first and ask questions never.
“Come take it,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.
The fight was ugly. The bandits lunged, all snarls and chaos. Ethan swung the sword blindly, its weight throwing him off balance. A blade grazed his ribs. A fist cracked his jaw. But when the leader charged, Ethan did not think—he *moved*.
The rusty sword found the man’s throat.
Blood sprayed hot across Ethan’s face. The bandit crumpled, his breath a wet rattle. The others froze, then fled into the mist.
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Ethan stood over the body, his hands shaking, the sword dripping crimson onto the road. He had expected to feel triumph. Instead, he felt sick. The man’s eyes stared up at him, empty as the sky.
*Is this what it means to wield a sword?*
He vomited into the dirt.
---
#### **Part 3: The Stranger in the Storm**
That night, Ethan built a fire in the skeleton of an ancient watchtower. The storm came howling down from the mountains, its winds screaming like the dead. He huddled close to the flames, the sword across his lap, and tried not to hear the bandit’s final gasp in the crackle of the wood.
A shadow moved at the edge of the firelight.
“You’ll attract worse than bandits with that blaze,” said a voice like gravel.
Ethan leapt to his feet, sword raised. The stranger stepped into the light—a woman, tall and lean, her face hidden beneath a hooded cloak. A longbow was slung across her back, and a dagger gleamed at her hip. Her eyes, sharp and gold as a hawk’s, studied him.
“Put that down before you hurt yourself,” she said, nodding at the sword.
“Who are you?” Ethan demanded.
“Someone who knows what it’s like to run from the mud.” She crouched by the fire, pulling a flask from her cloak and tossing it to him. “Drink. You look like death.”
The liquor burned Ethan’s throat, but it steadied him. The woman said nothing more, but her presence was a quiet challenge. *Prove you’re worth the road*, her silence seemed to say.
Finally, she spoke. “That sword’s a piece of junk. But your grip’s not terrible. For a slum rat.”
Ethan bristled. “I’m going to be a swordmaster.”
She barked a laugh. “Swordmasters don’t puke after their first kill. They don’t tremble. They don’t *hesitate*.”
“Then teach me,” Ethan said, the words spilling out before he could stop them.
The woman’s gaze hardened. “Why?”
“Because I’d rather die here than go back to the mud.”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she stood, brushing dirt from her cloak. “Dawn’s in five hours. If you’re not up, I leave you behind. And if you slow me down, I leave you for the crows.”
“What’s your name?” Ethan asked.
“Lira,” she said, vanishing back into the dark. “Sleep fast, boy.”
---
#### **Part 4: The Lesson**
Lira was merciless.
At dawn, she woke him with a kick to the ribs and threw a sack of stones at his feet. “Tie this to your sword. Swing it five hundred times. Then we move.”
Ethan’s arms burned. His blisters burst. But he swung.
One. Two. Three.
Lira watched, arms crossed. “You’re holding it like it’s a newborn. Grip it like you mean to kill it.”
Two hundred. Three hundred.
“Your feet are rooted in fear. Move like the wind. Like you’re *nothing*.”
Four hundred.
By five hundred, Ethan’s vision blurred. Lira tossed him a strip of dried meat. “Eat. We walk.”
As they trekked through the skeletal remains of a burned forest, she spoke in fragments.
“Swordmasters aren’t born. They’re forged.”
“Fear is a weapon. Turn it on your enemy.”
“The road doesn’t care if you live. So *make* it care.”
Ethan said little. He listened. He learned.
And when they camped that night, Lira finally asked, “Why Valenhold?”
Ethan stared into the fire. “To prove I’m more than what the world says I am.”
Lira smirked. “Good. Hate’s as fine a fuel as any.”
---
#### **Part 5: The Threshold**
A week later, they stood at the edge of the Ironwood, a forest so dense its trees grew like bars in a cage. Beyond it lay Valenhold.
Lira turned to Ethan. “This is where we part.”
“What? Why?”
“Your trial’s ahead. Mine’s behind.” She tossed him a small pouch of coins. “For food. And a warning: The academy’s nobles will eat you alive if you let them. Fight dirty. Fight smart. And never let them see you bleed.”
Ethan hesitated. “Will I see you again?”
Lira’s smile was fleeting. “If you survive.”
She melted into the trees, leaving Ethan alone with his sword and the echoing weight of her lessons.
The Ironwood loomed before him, its shadows whispering of terrors yet unnamed. Ethan tightened his grip on the sword.
He walked.