Denor sprinted around the large hut, smacking his hip off the side, which was never a good start to proceedings, truth be told. His lungs were ablaze, and snowflakes spiraled down with all the mischievous delight of sprites who had discovered how to freeze people’s noses off. As he barreled through a gaggle of girls, they scattered like startled hens, doing their best to avoid becoming collateral damage in his latest escapade. Denor, on the other hand, was more concerned with dusting off his tunic, still stubbornly speckled with chicken feathers—a reminder of his unfortunate encounter with a particularly irate fowl that, unlike Denor, had no sense of humor about the whole thing.

Without so much as a pause for dignity, Denor’s face found itself on an intimate collision course with a skinned moose carcass, narrowly avoiding becoming a permanent addition to the butcher’s collection of ear-less trophies. The village elders, those kindly souls known for their compassionate nature, might have called this incident a vast improvement. But Denor’s misadventures were not yet done confounding the local populace.

From somewhere deep in the village, his father’s voice boomed out, a bass note that rattled the frosty air. “Come on, boy, keep moving! The dead moose has more grace than you!” To most, Ledo’s voice was a command; to Denor, it was the verbal equivalent of a nudge toward imminent disaster, the same sort of nudge that had seen many boys before him flailing through life with several broken bones.

Denor’s mind, being what it was, didn’t bother with such frivolities as doubt or thought or anything resembling introspection. He had been told to run, and so he ran, whether it was through things or around them was largely a matter of chance.

Onward he stumbled, occasionally bumping into warriors who either continued sparring with the same stoic indifference or joined in the sport of mockery. “Andronians keep moving forward, no matter what stands in their way!” Ledo’s voice rang out, though whether it was to spur Denor on or to warn the villagers of his approach was anyone’s guess.

For the briefest of moments, as fleeting as a snowflake on a warm palm, Denor felt his father’s words worm their way into his consciousness. Perhaps there was wisdom in them after all, a lesson to be learned, even if that lesson was simply “don’t run face-first into a moose.” A small, self-satisfied grin crept onto his face, just as the villagers shifted from apathy back to mockery. At least they were paying attention, and that was progress, wasn’t it? He didn’t want to disappoint his father, after all. There was a future to be made here, one filled with responsibilities and opportunities—hopefully ones that involved less collision with objects that didn’t have any give in them.

As the sun set on another day of Denor’s inevitable demolition derby, he found himself at the end of a line of hopeful youths, all of them standing in patient anticipation. Hevath, the village elder, held a small bowl filled with trackers, dishing them out like particularly ominous candy. Each boy received his with trembling hands, the weight of future glories or doom resting heavily on them. When Denor finally got his, after being elbowed down to the last place in line, he tried to ignore the indignation burning in his chest.

Hevath, in his infinite wisdom, didn’t bat an eyelid at the boy’s plight. “An Andronian’s courage is tempered,” the elder intoned, with the gravitas of someone who had said this a thousand times and would say it a thousand more, and therefore did not need to be sober to do it. “He does not fear death, nor does he rush toward it. These trackers will guide you in the wastes beyond, where you will either prove your worth or...not.”

Denor leaned forward, eyes wide and full of wonder, utterly amazed that no one had yet kicked him out of the group for general incompetence. Hevath, the kind of old warrior who could give a lecture on bravery to a tree stump (if suitably inebriated), was busy placing a tracker onto Denor's hand. Denor glanced at the taller, more muscular lads around him, all of whom seemed to wear expressions of unshakable resolve, the sort of look that said, “Yes, I can wrestle a bear before breakfast, why do you ask?”

Under normal circumstances, Denor would have felt a pang of worry at this point. The kind of worry that comes with questions like, "Have I accidentally volunteered for something life-threatening?" or "Am I really warrior material, or am I just good at looking busy?" But today, fortunately, Denor's mind was as blank as a freshly cleaned slate, ready for Hevath to scribble all over with visions of glory, honor, and possibly a distinctly unpleasant amount of pain.

“To be an Andronian warrior,” Hevath intoned, “you must have cunning and balance, as well as strength and speed.”

Denor straightened as if his spine had just remembered it was supposed to be holding him upright. Only this morning, his father had given him a list of chores that seemed meticulously designed to suck every ounce of energy from his bones. Chopping wood for a sour-looking old widow, who had blunted the axe, possibly on purpose, and chasing a chicken that seemed to have been trained by a professional escape artist, before subsequently losing a fight against it. Each task required him to dash across the village like a madman—unless, of course, he did them efficiently. Cunning, as his father had pointed out more than once, often triumphed where brute strength and raw speed alone could not. Unfortunately for Denor, he was the sort who believed "Cunning" was probably a distant village he hadn't yet visited.

Hevath, now in full drill sergeant mode, surveyed the gaggle of boys with an eye that could spot a mishandled weapon at fifty paces. “Circle the furthest hill and avoid getting into trouble. I’ll be monitoring your progress with the trackers. Those who return in a time that doesn't make me despair for our future will earn the right to train with the warriors for a week.”

With that, the young men bolted from the line like a flock of startled chickens, each trying to reach the peaks before the others. Denor stood there, mouth hanging open in astonishment. They were moving so fast! How in Tamet’s name was he supposed to keep up with that?

Just then, Ledo, his father, strode over with a scowl that could have poleaxed an easily-startled Aurox. “By Tamet, boy, what are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?”

“That would be lovely…” Denor mused.

“Get going!” Both older men roared at him simultaneously, leaving the boy no time to admire their perfect unintentional harmony. Fueled by a mixture of shock, anger, and sheer terror, he sprinted off after the others, the mocking laughter of the elders ringing in his ears. As he stumbled and slid his way across the icy terrain, he spotted one of the boys ahead taking a spectacular tumble, flinging snow at another lad as he went down. The rest of them paid no attention as the boy crumpled to the ground, like an overcooked pudding collapsing in on itself.

Denor’s green eyes narrowed. It wasn't just about speed, was it? No, the trick was to complete the lap without ending up in a crumpled heap. The poor fool ahead could have gotten back up if his leg hadn't been bending in a direction legs were not supposed to bend. The real test here was consistency, not mad sprints, and definitely not hoping that the treacherous ground would kindly refrain from breaking your bones.

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As he pushed on, Denor noticed that some of the other boys had figured this out too. They were shoving each other aside as they scrambled up the hills, one unfortunate soul going face-first into the snow, teeth meeting a hidden rock with a noise that made Denor wince. The boy let out a howl and swung a fist at Denor, who, in a moment of divine timing, slipped just as the punch whizzed past his ear. “Tamet be praised!” Denor cried, as he regained his balance and pushed forward, the race not just against the others, but against the elements, and perhaps even against his own lack of ability.

Cunning, a dash of luck, and perhaps a little help from the good lord. That’s what would see them through, or so Denor hoped as he hurtled through the forest. While the rest of the lads crashed and blundered through the undergrowth like a herd of blind Aurox, Denor, with all the grace of someone who’s been thoroughly lost in these woods before, took a different route. His familiarity with the terrain didn’t stop him from tripping over every third rock, mind you, but it did mean he knew which hill to scramble up, which branches to duck under, and which thickets would only scratch him slightly rather than shred him entirely. He cut across the hillside like a particularly unsteady gazelle, letting the young trees slap him about a bit, just to slow down and keep his balance. When he finally tumbled back onto the path, limbs flailing but more or less intact, he was keeping pace with the rest. Bruised, battered, and grinning like a fool, he continued his peculiar dance, weaving through the forest as the sound of the others' grumbling reached his ears.

And then he saw it—the flicker of movement through the trees, a shadow darting from bush to bush. For a split second, he thought wolves were on their tail, but then the shadows resolved into something worse: a foot here, a red hand there. No wolf ever had such poor taste in body paint.

Denor's instinct kicked in, and he raised a hand, signaling the others to stop. “Temrit!” he hissed. The rest, naturally, thought he was up to some mischief until the air filled with the unmistakable sound of panic. One boy, in his haste to flee, managed to do the remarkable—he fell face-first into a snowdrift and promptly swallowed half of it. It was an impressive feat, the kind that should be accompanied by applause or, at the very least, a small trophy. But there was no time for awards, because four Temrit scouts had emerged from the shadows, their bald heads gleaming, and their armor bristling with spikes. The boys took one look and decided that the art of running away was vastly underrated.

But Denor, nostrils flaring and fists clenched, stayed put. He’d never been one for backing down, and besides, there’s a fine line between bravery and foolishness, and Denor was about to leap across it with both feet. He might not have been able to die, but he was starting to realize that courage and recklessness often share the same address.

One of the Temrit, clearly a fan of overkill, had a blaster in his hands faster than Denor could blink. The next thing he knew, a bolt of energy hit his ankles, and down he went, face-first into the snow. As he lay there, spitting out ice and pride, the Temrit closed in, moving with the caution of someone who wasn’t sure if their prey was playing dead or just waiting for a better moment to bite.

Denor eyed them warily. Their tribal paint was smeared, their swords were dull, and their expressions were more tired than terrifying. These weren’t the elite raiders the stories warned about, the sort he had seen the previous year. No, these Temrit looked like they’d been dragged across half the continent and were now debating whether a scrawny kid was worth the effort. They began a heated debate in their harsh tongue, evidently unsure what to do with a stubborn boy who refused to faint dramatically.

One of the Temrit pointed south, another gesticulated wildly, and Denor, ever observant, noted their pointing was toward the village.

Ever the opportunist, he lay still and feigned unconsciousness, waiting for his body to recover from the stunning bolt. He knew courtesy of his father that such a blast wouldn’t keep him down for long, and resisted the urge to thrash about, knowing it would only hasten their attack. Just as the Temrit leader grabbed a handful of his hair, preparing to introduce Denor’s throat to his blade, the boy slipped his battered old blaster free from his belt and smacked the red-skinned devil on the part of his jaw that his father’s careful instructions had repeatedly highlighted in first-hand fashion.

The blaster, firmly gripped in Denor’s determined hands, struck the Temrit on the side of his face with the satisfying crunch. The enemy's cheekbone and eye socket crumpled like a poorly made pie. Blood spurted, and the Temrit spun around, his face now a roadmap of agony, collapsing next to Denor.

Quick as a snow fox who just remembered where it buried its dinner, Denor flung himself backwards. Another Temrit energy bolt whooshed through the space where Denor's head had been a moment earlier. With a lack of nimbleness that would make a drunk sympathetic, Denor slipped backwards on a patch of black ice, toes skidding as he accidentally discharged the weapon for the first time. Balance, as his father always said, was crucial. It’s a shame then that balance was something that happened to other people.

The blaster actually worked! The bolt discharged and caved in the head of the second surprised Temrit. Praise be to Tamet!

Before Denor could even bask in the glory of his accidental heroics, a third Temrit appeared, huffing like a bellows and brandishing an energy axe that hummed with the promise of turning him into something resembling a festival roast. Denor raised his blaster and fired, but this time, the Temrit’s shield caught the bolt with a dismissive flare, leaving Denor blinking in surprise. The moment stretched out as the invader loomed closer, axe poised for a decisive chop.

With a desperation that came naturally to someone whose life had taken a sudden and dangerous turn, Denor charged. The problem with charging, though, is that it usually requires some semblance of coordination. Denor, naturally, tripped. The trip, however, was into the Temrit’s knee, a tactic so unorthodox that it managed to knock the warrior off-balance. The two of them went down in a flurry of snow, arms, and legs, like a couple of particularly clumsy dancers.

Denor scrambled to his feet, managing to land another blow, this time directly on the Temrit’s shield. It fizzled out with a spectacular failure of energy, leaving the invader sprawling and, for once, defenseless. Denor, realizing he was still alive and had somehow gained the upper hand, pressed the attack—or at least tried to. His attempt at aggression turned into an impromptu dodge as the energy axe whooshed by his legs, a near miss that caused Denor to reassess his life choices.

The Temrit, sensing Denor’s energy reserves were as low as his tactical brilliance, lunged. But Denor, in a move that would’ve made his father proud, sidestepped and brought his blaster down on the creature’s hip. The beast staggered, eyes widening in surprise before narrowing in determined rage. It charged again, clearly intending to squash Denor like a particularly annoying bug.

All of Ledo’s training flooded Denor’s mind. The endless practice sessions now seemed to slow time. The larger Temrit wanted to overpower him with sheer size and strength. Denor read the strategy in his eyes: parry the blaster bolt, close in, and let mass and momentum finish the job. The beast aimed to knock him down and turn his head into a pulpy stew on the ice. Granted, this stew would probably still be better than Ledo’s cooking, but Denor couldn’t allow it!

But then Denor’s finger twitched, and the blaster, tired of waiting for a proper plan, fired on its own. Denor had no time to even register the mistake as his body had other ideas and dropped the weapon—possibly the worst thing to do in a fight—and then permitted his wide eyes to watch in horror as it clattered off a stone. The bolt, in a fit of irony, ricocheted straight back into the Temrit, who stared down at the smoking hole in its middle with a confused expression on his face, then the crimson legs buckled, and Denor’s opponent fell, lifeless, into the snow.

Denor stood there, gasping for breath, his mind catching up with the reality of what had just happened. His father’s lessons about balance and strategy floated through his thoughts like a bad echo. Of course, Denor had displayed none of those admirable traits during the fight, yet here he was, still in one piece, surrounded by the remains of what he could now confidently count as four defeated Temrit warriors.

Yes, there were certainly four bodies lying there. Denor could count them now. One. Two. Three.

He stood in the snow for a moment, then his wandering eyes spotted the footprints leading away from the battle and towards the village.