Summer 4981, 30 Gorumoth

Breathe…

… In. Veon-Zih focused on the feeling of his breath. His diaphragm lowered, letting air into his lungs slowly, naturally, filling him with more than just life-giving air.

Breathe…

… Out. The old man exhaled, relaxing his belly, letting the air slip past his lips. A soft wind of breath merging with the summer breeze in the garden.

Breathe…

… In. Birds chirped in the tree behind him, growing strong and prominent in the sun-filled courtyard. He inhaled the sounds, paying them no more mind beyond the first acknowledgment of their existence. All that mattered was the moment and in the moment was only his breath.

Breathe…

… Out. He was relaxed, every muscle at ease in his cross-legged seat amongst the roots. He had released any tension with his earliest exhales. Now it was just his breath.

Breathe…

… In.

“Hey Shon, hiding again?” a boy’s voice, still young enough to be high pitched but not as high as a girl’s, floated over from Veon-Zih’s right, followed by a few snickers by the boy’s equally young companions. It wasn’t the Monk’s concern. He was here to meditate, to breathe.

Breathe…

“Hey! We’re talking to you!” another boy shouted, and the soft rustling of papers followed. A book being knocked to the ground. Veon-Zih opened his right eye. He continued to breathe, in and out, watching the scene unfolding at the edge of his vision.

Three boys stood surrounding a seated fourth, a book on the ground between his feet. The seated boy was looking at the book and not the bullies, black hair obscuring his face. The leader grabbed the black-haired boy’s shirt, pulling him to his feet, “Not so brave when you don’t have adults overseeing a challenge, are you?”

“Coward,” one of the others spat, “you think you’ll be a Paladin when you can’t even face us?”

Shon, that’s what they'd called him, sighed, knocking the arm away. He seemed more annoyed than frightened, and Veon-Zih turned his head ever so slightly to better watch. Would the boy run or fight? Would he call for help? Surely the priests would hear if he did. And Veon-Zih knew they wouldn’t condone such actions by their wards.

“I’m not going to fight you, Nadar,” Shon said, his voice quiet but not a whisper. Nadar, the largest and central boy, sneered. He had let Shon hit his hand away and crossed it over his chest, a defensive gesture whether he knew it or not. Shon bent to retrieve his book, but Nadar kicked it aside and his companions laughed again.

This was going to get ugly. Veon-Zih let out one last breath in a sigh. If the three of them were going to gang up on Shon, Veon-Zih would have to intervene. But then the two side boys stepped back, making some space for Nadar and Shon. A one-on-one fight then?

Nadar brought his hands up, small fists balled in front of him, but legs still sloppily straight and square with Shon, who was shaking his head, “What?” Nadar snapped, “You didn’t mind fighting me with everyone watching. I went easy on you because you were from the younger group. You’ll learn better this time.” Nadar was a good half a head taller than Shon and apparently older.

Veon-Zih could only guess what the boys were talking about but assumed he had a good idea. The priests of Saint Bjarki were allowed to hold one of their sacred tournaments twice a year for the children of the province. To keep things fair, the kids were divided into age groups, but these two boys had been allowed to compete with each other for some reason. Apparently, the younger had won. Perhaps Veon-Zih wouldn’t interrupt just yet. Nothing wrong with a friendly sparring match between two fighters…

“Answer me!” Nadar shouted while Shon only shook his head again and moved to the side as if to retrieve his book. Nadar threw a punch in his frustration. Shon ducked to the side, reaching up with his left hand and pulling Nadar’s extended arm. Nadar stumbled, and Shon stepped into the boy's reach, twisting around to keep his front to the bully and planting his rear leg firmly, raising his hands in a novice boxing stance.

Veon-Zih opened his other eye and fully to faced the boys, trying to split his attention between the observers -staying out of it for now- and the fighters. Shon’s maneuver was impressive from someone untaught, and Veon-Zih was finding it surprisingly difficult to keep his attention split. There was potential there.

Nadar managed to catch himself before tripping on the bench Shon had so recently vacated, spinning around and finally positioning his feet in a way that made it clear he intended to fight. The stance was as untrained and amateurish as Shon’s; his toes turned too far out. One sharp front kick, and he would be on his knees, possibly with a broken leg. Not that either of the boys would know that, Veon-Zih reminded himself.

Nadar attacked again, swinging for Shon’s face with his left fist. Shon didn’t dodge quite as quickly, and the punch grazed his cheek, but that wasn’t the real worry. Nadar stepped in behind the hit and swung a low uppercut with his right fist that Shon wouldn’t be able to dodge. The blow hit the younger boy squarely in the diaphragm, forcing him over the fist and knocking the air from his lungs. He coughed, and Veon-Zih jumped to his feet.

“Hey, let go,” Nadar said, and Veon-Zih stopped mid-step. Shon had grabbed the boy’s arm, keeping the fist pressed against his abdomen, and kicked straight up. Nadar went onto his toes then fell to his knees, clutching his groin and coughing as Shon took a shaking step back, wiping his red cheek with the back of his hand and breathing hard.

“I think that’s enough,” Veon-Zih called. Nadar wouldn’t have heard him, but his friends cursed and grabbed him under the arms, trying to run away but practically dragging the crying Nadar behind.

Shon didn’t run. “Not the most honorable attack…” Veon-Zih told him, trying hard not to smile, “But effective.” Shon shrugged, scanning Veon-Zih as he walked closer. The boy’s eyes trailed from the Monk’s sandaled feet, up his simple peasant garb, until they reached his shaved head, and Veon-Zih could finally get a good look at the boy’s face.

Shon had the soft features of a child who was still far off from puberty, though not at all pudgy. Having outgrown his baby fat, his face was thin and held the promise of a future strong jaw. His hair wasn’t just black; it was onyx and a sharp contrast to his pale blue eyes that looked more like translucent ice than any blue Veon-Zih had ever seen before.

“Why?” Veon-Zih asked, looking the direction the bullies had fled.

“Maybe now he’ll leave me alone,” Shon said, finishing his scan of the strange old man and moving once again to pick up his book, a journal by the looks of it. He took his time to make sure the pages were all straight before closing it and turning again to face Veon-Zih. He turned his entire body to stand square with the Monk, not just his head as if he wanted to leave. “Thank you.”

Veon-Zih rubbed his chin and watched the boy for a moment, waiting for an explanation of the thank you but receiving only silence. Perhaps Shon assumed Veon-Zih knew what he was talking about, “You’re welcome, though you had ended the fight quite handily before I interrupted.”

Shon shook his tiny head, his hair swaying with the motion and covering his eyes before he reached up to run his fingers through it, “The others might have jumped in.”

“Perhaps…” Veon-Zih tapped his chin in thought, playing through the fight again in his mind’s eye. That first maneuver showed real promise, “Does stuff like that happen often?” Shon only shrugged again in answer. A boy of few words. “You've fought before?” Veon-Zih tried to prompt.

Shon nodded, and Veon-Zih arched an eyebrow in question at the boy who sighed, running his hand through his hair again, as if frustrated, “At the Saint Bjarki tournament last month.” he turned his hips away ever so slightly, his stance stating clearly that he was ready for the conversation to be over.

But Veon-Zih wasn’t done talking yet, “And was that your first fight?” Shon nodded, “You show real promise…” no response. He'd heard it before, probably at the tournament, “Your dodge, in particular, you redirected the punch, over balancing your opponent. Though you could have kicked or tripped him in the pass, you at least got your feet planted after the turn.” The critique got Shon’s attention. The boy turned fully to Veon-Zih again, who covered his smile with his hand at the shift in Shon’s body language as he was scanned again by those icy blue eyes.

“You’re a fighter?” Shon asked, finally instigating some conversation. Veon-Zih dropped his hand and bowed in confirmation. “But you don’t have a sword…” Shon said, his voice trailing off before he focused on Veon-Zih’s sandals, his face scrunching up in confusion as he added, “or boots.”

“I am a… special kind of fighter. A Monk of the Ryukyu Monastery. I use no weapons and wear no armor.” Veon-Zih felt his smile widen as the boy’s eyebrows shot into his hair in surprise and intrigue.

“Why?”

That got a laugh from the Monk, who brought his right fist up to rest in his left palm, giving Shon a proper Monk bow, “It is my goal to perfect my art through training. To hone my body and mind into the most powerful weapons they are capable of becoming."

Shon looked confused again, his brow furrowed in thought before he asked, “But what if your opponent has a weapon? Or armor?”

“Then I will strike them faster and with more precision.” Veon-Zih spread his arms, wiggling his fingers, showing he still had all ten, “I haven’t lost yet, though many an armored bandit thought he might have an easy target. To his detriment.”

Shon looked from Veon-Zih’s fingers to his face, then down to his own booted toes. His fingers thrummed on his book with one hand and clenched his pant leg with the other. He was thinking hard about something, and Veon-Zih could only hope the boy’s mind was going where the Monk wanted it to. Finally, Shon nodded. Looking up to Veon-Zih again, he asked, “Can you teach me?”

Veon-Zih had to cover his mouth to hide his smile again, rubbing his chin to further conceal the expression. He didn’t want the boy to get too excited, “I will have to speak with Father Branston. I assume you haven’t reached maturity yet?” Shon shook his head. Maturity was reached at thirteen, and only then did children become apprentices in their future fields. Though Monasteries such as his own were known to take in orphans and start much sooner.

But that was in Oane, a mainland province off the coast of Clearhelm. “The training will be hard. Why do you want to learn?” It was an important question the Monasteries always asked prospective apprentices. If the answer was something along the lines of ‘to defeat my enemies,' they were quickly denied training.

“I’m going to be a Paladin,” Shon answered without hesitation, “and I want to be the best fighter I can for the Temple.” There were three Paladin Temples in the kingdom, but considering their location and Shon’s status as an orphan ward of the Church of Soleil, he could only be referring to the Temple of Hengist.

“So you don’t want to fight like I do?” Veon-Zih asked.

Shon’s tiny fists squeezed tighter, “I’m going to be a Paladin,” he repeated, “but I want to…” he stopped again, then threw Veon-Zih’s words back at him, “hone my body and mind into the most powerful weapons they are capable of becoming, for Hengist.”

Interesting. “I will have to talk to Father Branston,” Veon-Zih said again, and Shon smiled. It was a small, subtle thing that Veon-Zih wasn’t sure he would've noticed if he hadn’t just seen the boy so serious. “How about we meet tomorrow, before dawn, there, under the tree.” Veon-Zih pointed to the great tree in the courtyard where he'd been meditating when all this began. Shon followed the pointing finger with his eyes then nodded sharply.

The bell for the afternoon meal rang through the air, and Veon-Zih chuckled at its timing, “Well, off to lunch with you then, Shon. You won’t like it if it’s cold.” Again, Shon nodded, first at the statement then directly at Veon-Zih, a wordless goodbye, before turning to walk to the dining hall with the other children now filtering into the courtyard from their rooms or the streets around the church.

Veon-Zih took a moment to watch Shon as he walked away, rubbing his chin again in thought, “A Paladin without a sword?” The idea made him chuckle as he turned away. It was time to have a talk with his old adventuring companion.

***

Veon-Zih had been in Father Branston's office enough times that he could picture the sun-filled interior clearly as he knocked. He heard the exaggerated groan from the area of the desk as the Abbot stood, and counted the strong steps until the door swung open. The expected laugh rolled over the Monk and down the stairs as the Abbot wrapped Veon-Zih in a bearhug, lifting him off the ground.

“Master Veon-Zih!” Father Branston, holy Cleric and head of the Church of Soleil in Smilnda, laughed again, his large belly bouncing between them and shaking the Monk in the air, “You haven’t aged a day! If I'd known all that running and jumping would make you near-immortal, I would've joined you in it.”

Veon-Zih joined the Cleric in his laugh, awkwardly patting the man on the back as best he could -with his arms still pinned and his feet dangling a good six inches above the ground- “Not immortal, just… fit.” he managed to pull an arm free and poked at the fat belly between them, “I would think a healer would be wary of the dangers of an excess of food…”

Far from being offended, Branston laughed again, lowering Veon-Zih back to the ground. He threw his arms out wide and gestured the Monk into his office, patting him firmly on the back as he passed. A less solid man might have been thrown to the floor with such a hit, but the Monk took it with the strength of a warrior thirty years his junior. With a chuckle, Veon-Zih took his customary chair before the Abbot's desk.

"It's easy to let yourself go when you don't have to go trekking up and down the countryside, keeping up with a Monk who seems to forget that he can move significantly faster than his companions." Branston resumed his seat with a sigh. Leaning forward to fiddle with the teapot, he continued the rant that had become a tradition at this point, "I hope you're not here to talk me into some adventure or other. I've been off the road for twelve years, and I don't plan on getting back on now."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Veon-Zih rolled his eyes and allowed himself another chuckle. The only thing that changed in this exchange since Branston’s retirement had been the number of years mentioned. Veon-Zih watched his friend pour them each a cup of pale green Oane tea, continuing the script, “I gave up trying to seduce you back to the road eight years ago." The Cleric nodded absently as he slid a cup across the desk, taking the other for himself.

Branston leaned back in his chair with a contented sigh, muttering, “Good, I wouldn’t accuse you of being... unintelligent,” he took a moment to blow the steam rising from his tea, even lifting it to his lips, before finishing, “Though I still expect to hear your stories. It’s been almost a full year since your last visit. I expect you have plenty to share…”

“I have a few,” Veon-Zih clutched the warm cup in both hands, letting it cool further before sipping, “though first I would have a story from you.”

“Oh? And what do you want to hear from an old retired priest of a quiet Church?”

Veon-Zih snorted at that. Branston wasn’t just a priest; he was a Cleric. Blessed with the favor and magic of his god. An outstanding healer with a heart larger than his belly. The ‘retired’ old man often regaled his adventurous friend with tales of his own battles, though of a much more bureaucratic nature now. During Veon-Zih’s last visit, the Church had only just re-homed the last of the refugees of a frightful blizzard that had buried their village. This supposedly ‘retired’ Cleric had put himself on the front lines of the healing ward for weeks, saving as many as he could all while fighting a battle of paperwork to make sure his subordinates received the materials and assistance they needed from the Temples of Hengist and Saint Giorgos.

But that wasn’t the type of story Veon-Zih was looking for this time, “I met a young boy just now, hair as black as night without moon or stars and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen…”

“Shon? And you talked to him?” Branston looked surprised over his teacup, his gray eyebrows lifting into his thinning hair, “Or I should say, he talked to you? The boy isn’t usually one for conversation.”

Veon-Zih nodded, taking his first sip of warm tea while observing his old friend. In a province dominated by blondes, he'd expected Branston would have an idea of who the boy might be from the description alone. However, the Church cared for a large number of constantly rotating orphans, so that the Abbot had known Shon by name was telling... but what exactly would it tell him? “He was a boy of few words. Did you know you have a bullying problem?”

Predictably, Branston shifted forward angrily, “Shon? He would never-”

“Not Shon. Though I’m sure that will be the last time someone here tries to pick a fight with him.” Veon-Zih calmly reassured the Abbot.

Branston leaned back with a groan, “Foolish boys. You would think after the display at the tournament they wouldn’t try such a thing.” he shook his head, taking a large drink of tea, finishing the small cup, and placing it back on his desk with a sigh, “Or maybe that's why they thought to try. How badly do you think they need to be punished?”

Veon-Zih sipped at his own tea and shrugged, “I think Shon took care of it.” he didn’t think it would be a good idea to tell Branston exactly how Shon had defeated Nadar, and in any case, it didn’t matter for what he wanted at the moment.

Branston hummed, obviously not liking the idea of the boys keeping their own order under his roof. Veon-Zih hurried on, “He asked me to teach him, though he also seemed strangely set on joining the Temple.” would someone here really be so foolish as to get a boy's hopes up?

“Well, he’s always been slated to try for the Temple,” Branston replied. When Veon-Zih arched a questioning eyebrow, he continued, “He wasn’t actually left with us. He was left on the doorstep of the Temple of Hengist.” Veon-Zih felt his jaw drop as he blinked at his old friend. Branston merely nodded in understanding of his shock, “A newborn, tiny thing, barely cleaned from birth and left in a basket of blankets in the dead of winter. We suspect a refugee from the wilds, with his hair.”

But even they should know Soleil, and thus their Church, would be the one to care for lost children. The Temple of Hengist was more kindly than that of Horsa or Saint Giorgos, but they were still a militaristic order, their Temples doubling as military strongholds. Their smooth stone walls with armored guards could never be mistaken for the sweeping buttresses and welcoming priests of the Church of Soleil.

“You believe it’s some kind of sign?” Veon-Zih asked. He wasn’t much for attempting to interpret the will of the gods, but even he had to admit it was strange enough to be possible.

Branston shrugged, refilling his cup, “We at least think it appropriate that he try. And like most boys his age, the idea of living as a Paladin is a romantic one.” The knights were just below, and often among, the nobles in any of the ten provinces. And unlike the nobility, anyone could join... Provided they were capable of channeling holy magic... But since when did requirements stop children from dreaming? Add to that the apparent endorsement of one who could feel the subtle will of a god, and it was no wonder that Shon was so confident in his statement about joining the Temple.

Branston leaned back in his chair again, speaking over Veon-Zih's thoughts, “Though if he asked you to teach him…” he blew on the fresh cup of tea steaming between his hands, “perhaps the Monastery would be more appropriate.”

“Perhaps… or perhaps not.” if Shon wanted to, and was capable of channeling the magic of a god, would it really be appropriate to whisk him away to the mountains and isolated training? “I would like to train him in the basics at least. He shows real promise,”

“And more importantly, real interest.” Branston added, “He’s a quiet boy, doesn’t like to waste words when a nod or shrug will do. Hardly volunteers for anything and would rather sit on the sidelines watching the others play, drawing in that notebook of his.”

Veon-Zih nodded at the description, having known similar people before. But Shon had asked Veon-Zih to teach him, willingly stepping out of his comfort zone. Considering Shon’s apparently introverted nature, that only intrigued the Monk more. “So you don’t mind?” Veon-Zih asked Shon’s guardian.

“Not at all. But when will you find the time between adventures?” Branston’s eyes twinkled, bringing Veon-Zih back around to the stories Branston was hoping to hear.

Veon-Zih laughed, “Exactly then! Between adventures. I’m sure Rasnah will have plenty for me to do after I finish hunting some draken up north.”

“Is that why you’re here then? I look forward to that story when it’s concluded. When do you leave?” Branston’s entire round body lit up with excitement at getting to live the life of adventure through the eyes of his still-fighting companion. He gestured for Veon-Zih to finish his tea, reaching for the pot again to refill it. Keeping him well hydrated for storytelling.

“The day after tomorrow,” Veon-Zih answered, presenting his still half-full cup to be top it off, “I’m not sure how long I'll be gone, but I hope I can impose on you when I get back? There's nothing wrong with the Temple barracks, but they are exactly that, barracks.”

Branston joined his laugh at the Temple’s expense then waggled an accusing finger at the Monk, “So you have developed a taste for some of the comforts of life in your old age,”

Veon-Zih wouldn’t deny it, but even the promise of a warm bed every night wasn’t going to be enough to convince the adventurer to retire. Besides, how else would he gather the stories needed to placate his friends? More bored with their new paperwork-filled life than they would ever be willing to admit.

***

Shon could hardly sleep. Though if the restlessness was born from excitement, nerves, or embarrassment, he couldn’t tell. He hadn’t expected the old man to critique his fight and was even more surprised to find that there were actually people who fought without weapons. He'd expected the man to say that he only fought others without weapons, like the followers of Saint Bjarki with their wrestling and tournaments. Even Saint Bjarki himself fought with an ax outside friendly competition. But the Monk had just wiggled his fingers and said he moved faster... hit with more precision… Could he even fight a Paladin like that?

Rolling onto his belly, Shon moaned into his pillow. It was no use. He could no more sleep now than he could on the eve of Winter Solstice. As quietly as he could, Shon fished under his bed for his boots, slipping them on in the dark. The other boys snuffled and snored as he tiptoed past. He flinched at the familiar squeak in the door as he opened it just enough to squeeze out into the hall.

It was a short walk from the boy’s dorm to the central courtyard, and though the halls were deserted, the early morning birds were already beginning to tweet their greetings to the coming dawn. Each tap of his boots rang in Shon's ears, made alert by the stillness and uncertainty that he wouldn’t get in trouble if caught. The old man had worn sandals; would he require Shon to as well? Didn’t he get cold? Everyone else seemed to, even in boots.

The door to the courtyard didn’t creak. Still, Shon made a point of closing it very slowly anyway, keeping the handle pulled down until it was firmly in place to prevent the soft click from waking one of the priests. Or gods forbid… the matron.

The Monk wasn't there. He'd said before dawn, but how much before dawn? Crinkling his brow, Shon wondered if he should've asked. He'd assumed the instructions to be clear at the time.

The stern voice of the elderly matron floated through his memories like an overly critical bag of wind, ‘never assume, if you don’t know then ask.’ followed by a more amusing memory of Gaven after she'd walked away, ‘yeah Shon, don’t assume. It makes an ass out of you.’ he'd left off the end of the saying, not willing to admit, even in jest, that he was far more of an ass than Shon ever was.

Shon looked around again, circling the tree twice and even looking up into its branches, as if he expected the old man to be perched there, watching him. He wasn’t. And so Shon took a seat amongst the roots, wishing he'd brought his journal.

Even in summer, it was cool out this early. But Shon didn’t mind, he preferred it colder. Still, he brought his legs up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and resting his chin on his knees. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what the Monk would teach him. Once, he'd followed some of the older boys to the Temple to watch the Paladins train early in the morning. Shon wondered if any of those boys -all of whom had left the Church already- had passed the first test to become one of those Paladins. Swinging those heavy swords and lifting heavier shields, again and again, had looked like hard work and those boys had been known to put more effort into avoiding work than it would take to just do it.

The scraping of leaves had Shon’s head shooting up in surprise. He hadn’t meant to doze off… How was it that he couldn’t sleep in his bed, but he’d slipped off here in the garden? “Dawn is still a ways off. Did you sleep here all night?” the Monk stood before him, reaching down to help him up.

Shon scrambled to his feet without taking the proffered hand, brushing off his pants and trying to will the blush out of his cheeks. “No sir.” he answered, then added, “I didn’t know how much before dawn, so I came early... ” he didn’t want the old man to know he was too nervous to sleep, better to get straight to the point, “Have you decided to teach me?” he thought again of what it would be like to actually train with a real fighter, which in turn made him feel more excited than nervous.

The old man had a serious expression, but if he meant to deny Shon, he would have done it outright, wouldn’t he? Instead, the Monk seemed to be studying Shon as he waited, and only then did Shon notice that he was leaning forward on his toes in anticipation of the Monk’s answer. He tried to relax and had almost managed it when the old man nodded,

"Yes, I have decided I will train you. But only so long as you are an obedient and willing student. You have not apprenticed to me officially." Shon nodded in confirmation. He was more than willing, and he would be as obedient as he needed to be to prove it. Anything that will make me a better Paladin.

The Monk stepped away from the tree and motioned for Shon to follow, "Good. Now, you may address me as Master Veon-Zih, or just Master. We'll start with the basic stances and strikes. If you can master them, then we'll move on to full forms."

Shon followed Master Veon-Zih to a patch of flat ground free of roots, "First the stances. The first will be the horse stance. Your feet need to be shoulder width and a half apart, and bend your knees like you’re sitting astride a horse. Like this." Shon watched as Master Veon-Zih spread his legs wide and squatted low, his fists held at his waist, elbows tucked back.

Shon mimicked the Monk. Or tried to, “Lower…” Shon sunk lower, “lower…” Master Veon-Zih kicked the inside of Shon’s legs, forcing them wider so he could go even lower, until his thighs burned.

"Good. Now point your toes forward." Shon looked down at his feet as he adjusted them accordingly. Above him, Master Veon-Zih continued, "Good, now turn your hands so your knuckles are down and your palm is up." Shon felt the brush of the man’s fingers on his fist and pulled away on instinct.

“Sorry…” he mumbled to cover the embarrassment of his flinch, shifting his hands before Master Veon-Zih could touch him again.

“It’s alright…” but there was something strange in the Master’s voice. Had he felt the cold in Shon’s fingers? He was glad when the Monk moved on, resuming the horse stance in front of Shon, “This will be your primary stance for many of the strikes I will show you today. Your legs will get tired, so check your stance regularly and fix it when necessary.” Shon nodded, feeling the burn in his thighs again at the reminder.

Master Veon-Zih demonstrated the strikes quickly, naming each, then gestured for Shon to try. First was a straight punch. Shon took a moment to settle into his stance, then punched straight ahead. Master Veon-Zih caught his fist, and Shon flinched again. The Monk held his hand firm, “You don’t like being touched, do you?”

“Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” Master Veon-Zih tilted Shon’s fist slightly, so his knuckles were at a three-quarter angle rather than parallel with the ground, but then added, “Are you sure you weren’t out here too long? Your hands are cold. ”

The Monk’s fingers were warm on Shon skin, but he could feel them growing colder the longer Master Veon-Zih held on. Most people avoided touching him. It made them uncomfortable. So Shon had started avoiding them too, to the point that touch surprised him. “No ser. Master Veon-Zih.” he corrected himself quickly, the Monk would pull away soon, they always did, “My hands are always cold.” he added.

Master Veon-Zih didn’t let go, “Are you alright? Do you feel cold?” Shon shook his head, suddenly afraid. Would the Monk think he was too weak to fight? Assume he had poor circulation like the matron often said? He did his best to hide his fear, watching Master Veon-Zih watch him, trying to will himself to be calm, praying the Monk wouldn't notice.

It must have worked because Master Veon-Zih let him go a moment later and continued the lesson as if nothing had happened. The Master adjusted his fist a few more times, and Shon managed not to flinch, growing more and more comfortable with the Monk as the man didn’t comment again. And didn’t pull away.

The punches were followed by the other stances, then the kicks. There were five each in total, and he ran through each of them in his mind, watching Master Veon-Zih go through the motions and committing each sweep and line to memory, planning to draw them all, as soon as he could.

"You will do fifty punches and kicks every day. You may decide when you do them and in what order so long as they get done. I will know if you don't practice." Master Veon-Zih ordered, and Shon nodded, his eyes narrowed in determination, "I'm leaving tomorrow morning."

Shon’s focus snapped away from his mental images to the Monk’s face, “When will you be back?”

“A month, perhaps? It doesn’t matter. I will know if you've practiced every day or not.”

Shon swallowed nervously. What if he practiced wrong? But then he steeled himself, lifting his chin and nodding. The Paladins of Hengist did their drills almost every morning; he would do them every morning.

“Good,” Master Veon-Zih responded to Shon's silent answer, letting slip a smile before looking towards the kitchens and the smells of breakfast wafting out of it. Shon hadn’t even noticed the kitchen staff arrive. “But now it’s time for breakfast. I didn’t even notice!” Shon smiled, just a little. At least he wasn’t the only one, “We'll go over them all again tonight, so I know you're practicing correctly.” Shon nodded again, perhaps a little too excitedly in his relief because Master Veon-Zih chuckled. The Monk had a handsome smile that deepened the fine lines around his eyes, which showed his age more than his shaved head. Shon would have to draw that smile many times before he would get it right.

“But now, it’s time for breakfast.” Master Veon-Zih said again, motioning for the kitchens. Again, Shon nodded, first to the kitchens, then to Master Veon-Zih. He began to step away, only… “A moment, Shon.” turning back to the Monk, Shon started to furrow his brow in question, only to find that Master Veon-Zih had arched his eyebrow again. The expression conveyed the Master's own question about Shon’s quick retreat perfectly.

Instead of lecturing him, Master Veon-Zih explained simply, “In this school of training, we bow to each other before and after every practice.” Master Veon-Zih lifted his right fist and placed it in his left palm, bowing at the waist.

Shon looked down at his own hands then mirrored the motion, placing his left fist in his right palm. The move felt natural, but… “You’re left-handed?” quickly Shon switched his hands, but Master Veon-Zih waved him down, “No, no, it’s alright. Hmmm.” he scratched his chin in thought, “But it is something to keep in mind going forward.”

“Master?” The matron had forced Shon to write with his right hand when he was younger, but Father Branston had stopped her when he'd noticed during a visit to the classroom. Which way would his new Master go?

“In fighting, you should be equally strong on your left and your right sides. I should have mentioned it before, but if you find you're stronger on one side than the other, then you will need to double the exercises on your weaker side.” Master Veon-Zih explained.

Shon looked down at his hands again and smiled, something about that felt right. He returned his left fist to his right palm and bowed low to the Master. Master Veon-Zih returned the bow, then gestured again for the kitchen and didn’t stop Shon this time when he left.

Shon didn't go to the kitchen, passing his bleary-eyed fellows as he first went back to his room to retrieve his journal, determined to at least sketch the basics while he ate, already excited for the planned evening test and practice.