Ezril frowned at the sight before him. This was the tenth time, and yet, there was no difference. Not a stranger to violence? Ezril scoffed, he knows nothing but violence.

Foln swung his sword. The action bore all of his power and nothing of precision. Against better opponents it would have cost him, however, Ezril had chosen the youngest and least skilled of the soldiers he could find. He always warned them before they’d followed him. The person they would spar with was not known to hold back.

One of the soldiers, the last of the four, and the only one standing, parried the blow as it came. It pushed him back. It took him too long to recuperate. Foln chipped in another full side swing. It took the boy in the side. The soldier fell with the grace of a man without control of his legs.

“Enough,” Ezril commanded, resigned.

Foln hadn’t broken a sweat, unlike the soldiers that laid scattered around him. Ezril had thought to kill two birds with one stone: teach Foln and the young soldiers. He had been wrong. Picking up The wooden sword beside him, he rose from the stump upon which he’d sat to watch the massacre.

“Now,” he swung the practice sword from side to side, “I will be your opponent.”

Foln beamed with excitement as they squared up. If anything, Ezril had to give the boy’s previous tutors the accolades they deserved for at least ensuring he could hold the sword accurately, as well as perfect a decent footing.

Foln lunged at Ezril with his wooden sword. A stab at the chest. Ezril parried it to the side easily. He had seen the boy use it a few times. It was a technique he used whenever he deemed his opponent superior to him.

The full swing followed as expected, and Ezril stepped away from it. He mentally applauded Foln’s energy as he came in with consecutive swings, leaving himself open to attacks with each one.

Ezril sidestepped another thrust. The boy’s teachings—whatever they were—were of little influence in his strikes. Ezril could faintly notice them in how the boy’s body moved with each attack, compensating for the weight and strength of each swing.

His previous teachers, rather than teach him a different way of using a sword, had sought to refine his already haphazard technique. A smile played on Ezril’s lips as he parried another blow easily. Again Foln left his head unprotected.

Ezril stepped back. His intention was not to inflict pain. Not today. Today, he intended to see just how much difference existed between their first training and now.

Soon the felled soldiers were watching from where they sat massaging their obvious bruises. Ezril side stepped a swing and stabbed at the boy’s fifth rib. Foln staggered back but recovered quickly. He changed his grip. Now he held his weapon with both hands. Each swing now came quicker and stronger.

Ezril evaded just as easily.

In the end, Ezril’s sword came up. He struck Foln’s hand. It weakened his grip, loosened his hold. The sword fell from his hands, like rain from the sky.

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Foln gazed at the piece of wood in disbelief. He seemed unable to take his eyes from the weapon.

“Is this the first time you’ve dropped your weapon?” Ezril asked.

There was a delay before an answer came. “Not since my first tutor.”

“I see.” Ezril nodded, returning to his seat. “It will not be your last.”

After they had thanked the young soldiers, and Foln apologized for whatever grievances may be held, they sat down to a snack of bread and dried meat. Ezril always found snacks procured through pilfering more delightful than one simply given. And this one was given.

“How long has it been since you left the underbelly?” Ezril asked when they were done.

“A year now, Father,” Foln answered.

“What part did you stay?”

“The Plank district.”

The Plank district, Ezril repeated to himself. A coincidence?... “Why did you leave?”

Foln shrugged. “The place hasn’t been the same since the Venin guild took over,” Foln replied. “It’s no longer what I dreamed it would be.”

“Born and raised?”

“Born and raised,” Foln confirmed.

Ezril rubbed his chin. His next question demanded a tale for an answer. A tale he wasn’t certain he wanted to hear. “What happened?” he asked, regardless. “How did the Venin guild gain control of the place?”

“First they took The Plank,” Foln said, his tone reassuring Ezril that the answer was indeed going to be a tale. “I was still young when it happened. Hunmar said Olnic had withstood them for a long time and would’ve completely succeeded. He was a hard man to go against. Then one his boys got killed. That was when things got bad. He calmed his people when they wanted blood, and for almost a month there was nothing. Then another of Olnic’s boys went and started up trouble.” He paused, eyes lost in thought. “Hunmar said the boy was only seven when he hunted the men from the Venin guild who had killed the boy and slaughtered them in an alley with sword and shadow fire.”

“Sword and shadow fire?”

Foln nodded. “Said it was terrible.” He smiled. “As a child they’d scare us with the story, ‘don’t do anything bad if not the shadow child will get you.’”

“Shadow child?” Ezril asked, confused.

Foln nodded again. “They say the boy was only seven when it happened. The Shadow Child, the stories call him. Said he hunts down children who do evil and offers them up to the shadows for their sins. It was a very terrifying story as a child, if I must say; a child hunting down and killing ten men in an alley.”

“Ten men?” Ezril blurted.

“Yes,” Foln laughed, “before leaving the underbelly. Rumor has it the Venin guild is still looking for him. However, the children’s stories have him wandering the underbelly looking for naughty children. I hear the parents of the rich folk use it, too, to scare their children from the underbelly.”

Ten men, Ezril thought. The numbers had been grossly exaggerated. A child prowling the alleys with sword and fire in hand, punishing the evil doers. He almost laughed at the thought. This was what people had turned a child crazed with vengeance into; a childish tale of judgement and retribution.

“How is Olnic?” he asked.

Foln shrugged. “Not many know. He never leaves his shed.”

“Shed?”

“Yes,” Foln confirmed. “He lives in his shed behind The Plank. Sometimes people come to him, asking him to try and overthrow the Venin guild. Once, Hunmar sent me to him with a message, but he would not receive me. The last time I was there he still kept himself in the shed. I doubt he comes out now.”

“He didn’t have a shed,” Ezril said softly, more to himself than his violent student. Perhaps if they’d been crossing swords when he’d spoken, Foln wouldn’t have heard him. But they weren’t.

Foln’s gaze snapped up. “You knew Olnic well?”

“I was one of his kids.”

“What kind of man was he?”

Ezril could see the enthusiasm in the boy’s eyes. Very little control, he thought. Perhaps not having control is the good thing. His thoughts answered him, perhaps it’s what makes him human.

After a moment Ezril answered, “He was just a man. A normal man too many looked up to.”

“They said he changed after that night.” Foln shrugged. “Said he was never the same after it all.”

Ezril looked up, misplaced in thought. What he felt could’ve easily been guilt, maybe regret. “Perhaps.”

Whatever it was, he refused to examine it.