One evening, after the training ground had fallen silent and the stars were beginning to prickle through the twilight, Ledo rose from the rickety table, his chair scraping across the worn wooden floor with a sound like an old man’s wheeze. He poured what could, with a generous stretch of the imagination, be called stew back into the pot over the sputtering portable heater. Then, with the dexterity of a man well-versed in the art of making do, he scooped out another warmer helping.

"You were born under the sight of the Trickster, when the skies are alive with a riot of colour," he said, his voice a rumble that seemed to resonate with the very bones of the house. "The Temrit invaded on the day you came into this world."

His father set the 'fresh' bowl on the table and began to pace, his steps marking a rhythm that matched the flickering light of the heater. Shadows danced across Ledo's face, making his expression as inscrutable as a philosopher contemplating the meaning of life. His eyes grew distant, like old Tycho's did when the old codger was about to launch into one of his epic sagas.

"They were Temrit men, Denor," Ledo continued, his voice dropping into a storyteller's cadence. "Slovenly red-skinned dogs who had come to torment us. I honestly can't remember why they decided to grace us with their presence that particular day. Greed, lust, maybe one of our space-faring mercenaries had skewered one of their kin. The reason for their visit isn't half as important as the outcome. Had they won, some barbaric Temrit would be regaling his son with a glorious tale tonight."

Ledo looked down at his son, his hand resting heavily on Denor's shoulder. "Eat, boy. This is a story that takes its time."

Denor nodded, his hunger mingling with a fog of confusion as to why his father had chosen now, of all times, to share this tale. He would have a fortunate solution to that problem, but that comes later, unfortunately for us.

"We had little warning," Ledo went on, his voice like the rustling of old parchment. "The perimeter defences were compromised. The invaders came from the skies in drop ships that slipped past our scans like shadows in the night. I led the defense in the south. Your grandfather, had he been there that day, could have recounted the grisly details of who did what. He would have tallied his blows and cuts, but I never had that gift. I never had the desire to remember. All I know is that steel flashed and rang. I was proud that my sword sang true and bit into Temrit armour. It carved through flesh and cleaved limbs. It cut men down and left them in pieces."

Ledo stopped by the heater, leaning against it with both hands and staring into the bubbling pot. Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. At this point it would have been too easy to compare the silence to the stew. For reasons he couldn't fathom, Denor felt a lump rise in his throat.

When Ledo spoke again, his voice was low and rough. "Your mother, Denor... your mother was a true Andronian. You have her eyes, those green ones, but your blonde curls come from my father. Despite having just given birth to you, she charged to meet the Temrit to the north as they broke through. She killed several men, screaming in fury like a banshee from old Tycho's tales. Had our warriors not fallen around her, she would have held the line. But they charged, and a Temrit man stabbed her.

"She didn't scream, your mother. Not a sound. She wouldn't let the Temrit win. But I saw her fall. With one hand she held her stomach. With the other, she reached for a sword, even as her killer stood over her." Ledo snorted. "The fool hesitated. I don't know why. I don't care. It only gave your mother enough time to grab the sword and plunge it into him where he'd stabbed her. And before he could strike and finish her off, I split him in half."

Ledo's shoulders trembled, and Denor was sure it was with anger. His father didn't cry, and yet a tear rolled down his cheek, betraying the boy's assumption.

Ledo turned to his son, his face shadowed. "Your mother was dying. She knew it. She pulled a dagger from her belt and pressed it into my hand. 'Train our son to avenge us,' she said."

Denor stared at his father, the weight of the story settling over him like a heavy cloak. Ledo's voice softened, the tremor of emotion clear. "She died there, on the battlefield, so that you might live. Her strength flows in your veins, Denor. Remember that. Every time you hold a sword, every time you face an enemy, remember the sacrifice that brought you into this world."

Denor's heart swelled with a mix of pride and sorrow. He nodded, the significance of his father's words sinking deep. "I will remember, father."

Ledo placed a hand on Denor's shoulder, his grip firm but comforting. "Good. Now eat, and rest. Tomorrow, you continue your training. You have much to learn, and much to prove."

Ledo turned his gaze towards the door and the village beyond. "They remember your birth as the day of great sorrow. They said you were cursed by the Trickster god Tamet, a punishment sent to me.

"But I see it differently now. I tried so hard to resist, to let reality take its course and not give in to the promise I made your mother. It ate me up inside, refusing to help you, because I feared what might happen if I did. Now though? Now you cannot die, and you choose your path of your own volition."

Denor frowned in confusion, a state of mind as familiar to him as his own reflection, considering 'vocabulary' was something he vaguely assumed to be an exotic fruit. "Volition? Are you saying you didn’t want me to become a great warrior?"

Ledo laughed, a rich, hearty sound that seemed to fill the room. He placed his hands on his son's shoulders. "Yes, Denor, precisely that. For your entire life, I've been desperately hoping you'd become a janitor or a chef or even one of those people who thinks they can talk to plants. Can you imagine how quickly you'd have been murdered if I had let you believe anything else? Now the responsibility is out of my hands."

“What responsibility, Ledo? I still don’t understand,” Denor replied, a boy who wasn't afraid to ask questions because he never understood the answers anyway.

"You might not understand now, but one day you will. Responsibility will come knocking on your door when you least expect it. There's no need to worry about it right now, but the time will come..." Ledo circled the table, stretching his legs as if limbering up for a philosophical sprint. He looked at his son with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "It takes a village to raise a child, Denor. Many of the lessons I teach you won't involve a sword. I took it from you because you need to learn things beyond the blade, beyond using your fists."

"Yes, Ledo," Denor replied with all the comprehension of a tortoise tackling trigonometry.

"The first lesson of a great leader, Denor, is not to..."

At this point, Denor's attention drifted away, his gaze fixating on his stew as though it might reveal the secrets of the universe.

Ledo, oblivious to his son's wandering mind, continued. "Holding back isn't the hardest thing you'll ever do in life, Denor; it's just the hardest thing you've done so far. Aggression is the virtue of a warrior, but restraint is the virtue of a leader. Promise me you'll learn this."

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“Yes, Ledo,” Denor replied, sticking to his well-tested strategy of agreement in the hopes it would conclude the conversation swiftly.

"Excellent," Ledo nodded, mistaking compliance for understanding. "You've fulfilled half the bargain, so I'll fulfill the other. Tomorrow morning, you’ll have your sword returned to you."

Denor's face lit up, his heart racing. "And you will train me. Will we fight?"

"We will, Denor, we will. But not immediately."

Denor's shoulders slumped. "Why not?"

"It's very simple, my son." Ledo met his son's blue gaze with a steady look. "You are growing and will soon outgrow this village. Let's get your fundamentals right before that happens."

The gunsmith straightened to his full height and ruffled the boy's hair with a scarred hand. "You're not yet the man for that sword, but tomorrow, we’ll begin the journey to get you there."

***

The next day, the training began in earnest. “Firstly, keep in mind that it's called ‘swordplay’, but it’s really ‘human combat’. A blade is only as sharp as the mind that wields it.”

To illustrate his point, Ledo extended his sword and pressed the point gently against his son’s chest. "Now, cut me with your sword."

The boy lunged eagerly, but Ledo’s greater reach and the length of his sword thwarted Denor’s every attempt. The boy dodged and weaved, but Ledo merely took a step back and pressed the point against his son’s chest again. Denor's eyes narrowed in frustration, and he slashed Ledo's blade aside with a resounding metallic clang.

But every time Denor tried to close in, Ledo danced back, meeting every fierce parry with a retreat, every bull-like charge with a sidestep. Denor's face flushed red, his lips pulling back in a snarl of frustration. Finally, the boy threw his blade aside and spun around, only for Ledo to pivot as well and smack him on the buttocks with the flat of his sword. Denor slipped and tumbled headlong into a snowdrift.

As he scrambled up, spitting out snow, he stammered, "You don’t fight fair!"

The gunsmith planted his blade in the ground and placed his hands on the pommel. "Do you think anyone you face in battle will fight fairly?"

“I thought warriors fought with honor.”

"No. If you believe that, you'll die in your first battle." Ledo shook his head slowly. "Men who survive tell others they fought honorably. They lie. Do you remember all the stories your grandfather told? Did he ever mention honor?"

Denor shook himself like a wet dog, scattering snow from his clothes. "No."

"And do you think anyone who survived fighting him ever called him honorable?"

"...no?" Denor ventured.

"Son, if you remember nothing else, remember this: It’s not the killing that wins, but the surviving."

Denor rubbed his sore behind, frowning. "What if I kill them all?"

"Then that makes you the only survivor, doesn’t it?" Ledo pulled the blade from the snow. "So first, I’ll show you how to survive, and then I’ll teach you the art of killing."

Denor watched him with suspicion, but obeyed as instructed. Ledo showed him the four gates – top right, top left, bottom right, bottom left – that would block all blows. He taught him the five sweeps to counter lunges, and the brushes that deflected blades wide.

Denor was not quick or agile, but he was patient and persistent. More than once, when he tried a clumsy counter, Ledo would bind his sword and knock him to the ground. The boy would clamber back up, frustration blazing in his green eyes, and keep coming. Because of his own size, skill, and reach, Ledo never feared being hurt. He knocked his son down again and again until the boy could not get up, their training sessions sometimes extending late into the night.

Ledo stood over him one night as large snowflakes fell, a silent blanket over the world. "Do you know why I keep hitting you?"

Denor spat blood from his split lip, confusion etched into his face, which often appeared as though deep thought was an unfamiliar terrain. "Because I’m not good enough yet?"

"Of course you’re not," Ledo sighed, his breath misting in the cold air like a phantom's whisper. "But that's not the point I'm trying to make."

Denor gave thinking another go. “You don’t fight fair.”

"Finally!” Ledo bellowed to the skies, addressing any listening deities or passing clouds. “He gets it! I don’t fight fair, I fight to survive. I use my reach, I move faster than you. What does that tell you?”

The boy sat up in the snow, his eyes shadowed with the sullen gloom of someone who felt all this was somewhat pointless. "That this has been pointless and I can’t win."

“Wrong! What does that tell you?”

"I have to be faster. I have to be stronger."

"It wouldn’t hurt, but that’s not it." Ledo shook his head, a glint of wisdom in his eye. "It means you shouldn’t fight me with a sword."

The boy blinked, confusion setting up permanent residence across his face. “But I thought we were practising with swords.”

Ledo gestured for Denor to lower his sword. "Every man you come up against has his strengths and his weaknesses," he began. "Every group, every army, everything you'll ever fight has their own strengths and weaknesses. A giant might be strong but slow. A cunning foe might be quick but frail. If you exploit their weaknesses with your strengths, you will win."

Denor considered his father's words, a flicker of understanding finally replacing his frustration. "So it's about finding their weak spots?" he asked, hefting the practice sword again, this time with a newfound focus.

Ledo nodded, a hint of pride in his eyes. "Aye," he rumbled. "Victory often lies not in brute force, but in exploiting what your opponent lacks. Now, let's see you put that lesson to use."

Denor frowned. "You have no weakness."

A shadow passed over Ledo's face as he sank to one knee. His grip tightened on Denor's shoulders. "There's more to strength than just swinging a sword, son," he said, his voice low. "Every warrior has a chink in their armor, even me. Whether you ever find mine is another story."

The boy looked up, determination hardening his features. "Then I will never be able to defeat you."

"You will." Ledo smiled, a rare softness in his eyes. "Attack me again, and I'll show you how."

Denor's answer was a fierce battle cry as he lunged forward. Ledo, a seasoned warrior, effortlessly blocked the blow. The clang of metal echoed across the ice as blades clashed, parry meeting parry, thrust countered with feint.

Denor, fueled by a warrior's spirit, fought with everything he had left. He combined techniques to offset his lack of agility, leaving Ledo dodging more than ever. Yet, despite the relentless assault, Ledo remained on the defensive, never striking back, and never looking remotely troubled.

Pride welled in Ledo's chest. Denor wasn't strong or fast, but he didn’t need to be; he displayed the makings of a true warrior—adaptability, persistence, and the will to learn. But for all his fire, Denor lacked control. He grew tired, his movements were as predictable as suggesting ‘it might snow tomorrow’. With a swift maneuver, Ledo disarmed him, sending him sprawling.

Denor, fueled by frustration, rose again and again, each attack wilder than the last. Ledo parried every attempt, the echo of steel ringing through the crisp air. Finally, with a frustrated roar, Denor charged, aiming a blow that could cleave a man in two.

Ledo sidestepped with ease. "Slow down, Denor! Think for once in your life!"

The force of the missed swing sent Denor spinning. Ledo followed up, disarming him once more. Denor landed hard, his anger replaced by a chilling realization. The solution to Ledo’s defense was beyond him.

Denor charged again, a primal scream tearing from his throat. This time, however, his attack wasn't a flurry of wild swings. He charged straight for the man, forcing Ledo into an assault to ward him off. But instead of avoiding the blade, Denor lunged forward, not with the intention to disarm, but to win.

He saw the shock flicker in his father's eyes just as the tip of the sword met its mark. A sickening thud echoed as the blade pierced through Denor's stomach, pinning him to Ledo's chestplate.

Time seemed to distort. Denor's scream died in his throat, replaced by a gasp. Blood bloomed on his tunic, staining the ice crimson. Ledo's grip faltered, his own eyes wide with disbelief.

Denor, fueled by a desperate madness, used the leverage of the impaled blade to twist his arm. With a final, wrenching motion, he forced it upwards, the tip coming to a halt below Ledo's jaw.

Ledo stumbled back, hand flying to his unharmed face. Denor, vision blurring, sank to his knees, the weight of the blade and his foolishness threatening to pull him under.

Ledo, his face pale, slowly lowered himself to the ice. He met Denor's gaze, a storm of emotions swirling within its depths as he watched his son bleed out with a smile on his face.

"You are a fool, Denor," Ledo finally rasped, his voice thick with emotion. "But a stubborn, persistent fool. Well done."

Denor tried to speak, but a cough wracked his body, blood and something he didn't quite understand spewing out of his mouth as shock set in.

Ledo, with a sigh that spoke volumes, rose to his feet and retrieved his sword. He knelt behind his son and placed the blade on his neck, a motion he had never done before. A warrior's death.

"You will live," Ledo said, his voice gruff but laced with something else Denor couldn't comprehend in his state. "But this victory... I fear it heralds the rest of your days."

Denor, his bravado fading with the ebbing pain, could only manage a weak nod. He had proven himself, in a way, but at what price? The answer, heavy and cold, settled in his gut as his father drove the blade home.