Syrus breathed evenly as he reached the final stretch of his evening run, his mind was tempted to stray, flickering thoughts of dinner after and the refreshing wash he would take beforehand, but he squashed this temptation, these thoughts were not important, his father had taught him to always devote his attention to the task at hand, and right now, that was finishing his evening run. Every night he ran a myle, though he couldn't be sure how exact he was on the distance, he did know that it was approximately three thousand of his steps, which he counted throughout. Young as he was, he was taller than all of the boys his age, and stronger than all of them except the nearby blacksmith's son, Cole. He reached his three thousandth step and slowed to a walk, breathing evenly as if he had not just run a greater distance than most men in the village could without winding themselves. They had pointed at him and laughed when he had started running at the age of six, loudly remarking that that was all the little Simerian boy would ever be good for, at first he had complained and cried, not wanting to run and wanting even less to suffer the insults of the town folk, but James had scolded him, told him that it would make him stronger and that one day he would see the value in his constant training, that the day would come when he would thank James for teaching him lessons that most thought too harsh for a boy his age. James was right, too, as Syrus had once witnessed a drunken farmer being brutally beaten by three men one night outside a tavern a few streets over from his home. After that night, he no longer questioned the training he endured, always telling himself silently I won't let that happen to me. As the years passed, the townsfolk no longer gawked at him as he ran by, seeing it twice a day must have diminished the spectacle, though the mutterings about that Simerian boy never seemed to stop.

He bore it well, along with the pain of his training, knowing that he had to simply earn the respect of those around him for it to stop, and, while he would always be polite, he need not respect them in turn, lest they earn it themselves. This simple philosophy might seem complex for a boy his age, but he often thought that he was not much like the others, if not for his mind, quick to make calculations and a seemingly unending thirst for knowledge and facts. His black hair and eyes didn’t help, which, if closely observed, had small flecks of gold regularly dispersed throughout. This coupled with his unnatural tallness and darker complexion seemed to mark him well enough as a simerian, though he had never thought of himself as anything but a resident of Jeim, a simple citizen of Tardis. He didn't know if he would ever feel any loyalty to those of the same birth as him, as he had never met another Simerian, and he did not suspect he ever would. So he continued with his training, knowing that someday he would lead the guard, and others would follow. He had resolved to always set a good example, and he suspected that already it was working, as he sometimes saw guardsmen running with the same determination written across their faces as he had, and wondered if it was because his adopted father wanted them fit, or because they didn't want to be outshone by a nine year old boy. He pondered these thoughts in the back of his mind as he slowed to walk the last few streets left to reach his home, near the center of the small city. He soon arrived, smelling the dinner that he considered a reward. He approached the small front door, before turning and walking to the rain barrel, removing his shirt, dirty and smelling of sweat, and washed himself with the bucket inside. He poured the remainder of the bucket on his shirt, then took it behind the house to hang, before cleaning his leather shoes off and knocking politely on the door. "It's me!" He called out, before entering the moderately sized house, bigger than any house in the poor sections of town, it nevertheless wouldn’t impress any townsman from the wealthier districts either, James seemed to like it that way, however, often stating that this was ‘a home that befit the captain of the guard.’ This could immediately be observed in the somewhat spartan decoration, or lack thereof, as well as the intense cleanliness of the house as a whole.

His adopted mother was a gentle woman. Serious, but prone to sudden outbursts of cheerfulness that could take you completely by surprise. She had a wide smile that she always knew when to use. With long, brown hair that was straight and neatly kept, and brown eyes that hid her strong wit and sense of humor behind an air of studied seriousness. Most importantly, Sybil Lyford regarded him as her own, treated him as such, and for that he was more grateful for than perhaps anything else. She smiled at him as he put a clean shirt on and entered the kitchen, before passing him a plateful of cooked vegetables and local fowl. He was halfway through the meal, when he heard James’s boots on the short cobblestone path leading to their home. He knew they belonged to him because he had memorized the sound they made, a kind of thump-click as the soft leather of his boot heel met metal studs on his immaculately clean, steel adorned soldiers boots. James went through a similar routine of washing his hands and face, before announcing himself and entering the home, greeted immediately by a smile and kiss from Sybil, and his own plate of food. He unbelted his sword, leaving it, along with his amour, on the nearby racks specially made for them. They would be cleaned and oiled before he retired for the night, as much a ritual as a habit. Then, he took his plate and joined Syrus at the table. Sybil received a look from James, and she sighed before sitting down at her own seat. Instead of eating, James simply stared at Syrus. Syrus felt this stare almost reflexively, so he sat down his fork - almost finished anyways, and waited for James to speak.

This was not the first time this chain of events had occurred, he had learned better than to ignore James when he was the focus of his attention. Usually, his adopted father’s next move would be to inform him of changes to his training. An increase in intensity or hours, a more advanced technique, rarely, he learned of a new weapon, and over time, how to use it. However, something was off, as all James did was stare at him with his probing eyes, almost as if he was judging Syrus somehow. He must have decided Syrus was ready for what he had to say, because he grunted before producing a leather wrapped bundle from inside his cloak and laying it on the table. “We’re going on a trip, six weeks there and back” he started. “You’re to train with these from now until we leave, I know you can’t swing a real sword yet.” He paused, seeing the argument forming on my face, “Not properly anyways, so I’ve found you something that suits you better.” Syrus had a wooden practice sword, lightly weighted with an iron rod in the center, and he trained with it for two hours every morning. Perhaps due to his inability to put the real thing to use, it did not feel right in his hand, and he had often found himself wishing for something else. Though he knew not what he would use if not his bow, weighted for him, and eventually the sword. James seemed to chew on his next words, carefully considering them. “We leave before dawn on 9th day. I won’t have you defenseless, even if I’m around, while we travel.”

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It was perhaps the longest James had spoken to him this year other than while he was being taught. Syrus finally gave in to his curiosity and looked at the leather wrapped bundle as James slid it across the table. In the back of his mind he vaguely heard Sybil say something to James, sounding slightly concerned, but the words were lost in his fascination. He unrolled it to find an oiled leather belt and a leather shoulder harness, shaped to fit diagonally across the body. Underneath these lay two knives that were perfect mirrors of each other. Each knife about thirteen inches in length, with thick, single sided blades, straight along the first ten inches of the edge before curving in a sharp sweep upwards towards the thumb. The curve extended past the dull side of the blade about an inch, where it stopped, forming a wicked point. The tang was full, joined on either side by a slim piece of a darkly stained oak, held together by glue and undecorated steel pins. Each had a cross guard set to angle downward in a gentle curve, just enough to protect his fingers. In short, they were perfect. Not works of art but beautiful in their function, they were fighting knives and seemed to be made by someone who knew what they were doing. He couldn’t hide his momentary surge of happiness, something about them just felt right to him, like he had been waiting for these knives and didn’t know it.

He quickly adjusted his face back to its neutral posture and looked at James, who had a momentary smile of his own. He reached under the table and brought out another bundle, which he slid across the table. “Your friend Cole, the blacksmith’s boy, seemed very sad to see these go.” This too was quickly unrolled to reveal a set of four throwing knives, which appeared to be even more plain than the nondescript fighting knives, yet still made with good steel, each was about 7 inches long and double bladed, with a short handle meant to be held only with the thumb and forefinger. A quick observation showed that they were sized for the shoulder holster, and he couldn’t help but imagine how well they would sit across his chest under his cloak. He realized then that these were likely the most expensive things he owned now. He was struck by a sudden understanding of their importance, they were not a simple gift. He cleared his throat.“Thank you, sir, they’re perfect.” He knew that was all James would expect from him, any more would just be repeating the same thing. James nodded, and set to his meal in his normal silent and efficient manner.

The following morning saw Syrus doing his usual routine, a fifteen minute bout of stretches before the sun had risen, each stretch slowly getting harder than the last. Followed by his own form of acrobatics, involving handstands and backbends, kicks that travelled higher than his head, jumps that kept him off the ground for a seemingly impossible amounts of time, diving rolls and standing rolls in every direction, and even movements on all fours, as he limbered up his body in preparation for the coming day, then he set off on his one myle run, returning with the same controlled breath as when he had left. Next he went to pick up his practice sword, but stopped short with a grin, and instead retrieved his holsters, knives attached and sized to fit him perfectly the night before. He had just started giving them a few practice swings when James came back from his own morning run of five myles. James abandoned his own routine, taking the morning to train Syrus in the art of knife fighting. Nearly an hour of pointed advice later and he was attacking the practice dummy with ever increasing speed, while James watched and occasionally, interjected. Syrus was well attuned to fighting after three years of constant instruction from James, but the knives did not seem to click with him. He had just finished a large, sweeping blow when he was interrupted by a yell from James, as was his typical way of speaking during training sessions. “It’s not a sword boy!” He adjusted his strikes, but something still didn’t feel right, he felt no real resistance from any of his blows on the dummy, until James spoke up once more; “If you’re to fight with these, you’ve got to put aside what you’ve learned about swords. The power doesn’t come from the weight of the weapon, it comes from you, you’ve got to be strategic, be smart, deflect a strike with one and sneak in a stab with the other, knives are for quick killing, maiming, but never hacking away at your opponent. You won’t be some shining knight on the battlefield with these, you’ve got to think, be ruthless, aim to disable, put your opponent down before finishing him, render him unable to fight back or even run away, slice open the back of his knees or the inside of the elbow, then go for his throat! You can’t hold a shield with these, so you’ll have to adapt, just like you do with everything else.” It was as if these words opened a door inside his mind, and soon he had it. The knives were a part of each arm, they were a part of him.

It was like fighting with longer, deadlier hands. They moved in quick circles, often involving equal proportions of movement from his body as from the knives, and he was moving, in and out of the practice dummies guard, catching it in the armpit and across the throat, knives moving from close to his body, in order to provide some measure of protection, before snaking out and striking, then back again. He heard footsteps and registered that James was leaving, but paid it no mind as he kept at it, until two hours had passed, and he stopped, soaked in sweat and breathing heavily. A close inspection of the blades showed not a mark from the heavy training, but he wondered how long they would last against steel. He sheathed his knives and, after a short break for water and to rest his tired body, he picked up his bow and donned his quiver, he didn’t have any feather tree arrows, and indeed, he doubted any save his father had them in the entire city, but even without magical properties, the bow was still a deadly weapon. The exercise was more for strength than technique, as he had begun shooting a children’s bow at the age of five and his aim was superb. James had told him that if he could still shoot well even when his muscles felt like jelly, when his arms were weak from exertion and his mind exhausted, then, and only then, was he an expert. Syrus felt he was close, desperately close, but still he practiced, as if to squeeze that last bit of skill out of every minute spent shooting. Thirty minutes of this was followed by practice with his throwing knives, which he soon learned he did not have any inherent skill in at all. He had thrown ten times, and four of those times he missed completely, while the rest had either bounced off or stuck at haphazard angles. He walked forward to retrieve his last throw, grinning ruefully at himself and regretting his half hour spent shooting a bow, when he should have dedicated the time to learning this new skill. “Practice, practice…” he mumbled to himself, and set to what he now knew would be a long morning. It didn’t occur to him until later that night to wonder why James was so knowledgeable about knife fighting; they weren’t, after all, common tools for a soldier. He kept that question to himself, however.