"Right ye go, lad!" a deep, gravelly voice rang out across the open field behind Stormsong Manor, its rough tone cutting clean through the quiet of the afternoon. The makeshift training ground stretched wide and bare, the earth churned from repeated bouts, weapon racks scattered about like silent witnesses to countless clashes. "Ye've gone an' gotten reckless, aye?" The voice carried a bite of mockery, thick with a dwarvish lilt, rough yet not without a strange warmth beneath it.
The source stood firm a few paces ahead.
A stout dwarf, broad as an anvil, with a hammer in each hand—both worn from use, yet deadly all the same. His boots were planted deep into the soil, unmoving, unshaken, as though the ground itself answered to him. His beard shifted with the wind, and his sharp eyes gleamed with amusement as they studied the boy before him.
"Reckon it comes wit' yer growin' strength," Falstad continued, rolling his shoulders with a low creak of armor. "An' wit' it, comes that fool's courage o' yours. Power's a fine thing, lad… till it starts thinkin' for ye." He gave one of his hammers a small spin in his grip, catching it with practiced ease, the motion effortless, almost casual.
Thorwin did not answer.
He stood still, blade held forward, its edge steady despite the tension running through his arms. His stance was sound, trained, and disciplined. But there was something beneath it. A subtle imbalance. Falstad had seen it before. Too much confidence. Too much reliance on what now flowed so freely through him.
His jaw clenched. No… I must focus.
His grip adjusted, firmer now, correcting the slight slack that had crept in. The weight of the sword anchored him, pulled him back into himself. His shoulders straightened, his footing sharpened, and his gaze narrowed until it locked fully onto the dwarf. The flicker of distraction faded. In its place came something steadier.
Something controlled.
"Ahh, there ye are!" Falstad barked, a wide grin breaking through his beard as he brought both hammers together with a resounding clang. "Now that's the look o' someone who might last a proper fight!" His laughter followed, deep and booming, echoing across the training ground.
He leaned forward just slightly, lifting both weapons into position, his stance shifting from relaxed to ready in the blink of an eye.
"Come on then, lad," he growled, eyes gleaming with challenge. "Let's see if that fancy Light o' yours can keep up wit' a proper swing o' steel!"
Yet before Thorwin could lunge forward, something within him stirred.
A whisper.
Not from the wind, not from Falstad, but from somewhere deeper—somewhere buried beneath memory and pain.
"Lord Thorwin, you must survive. We owe our life to the Lion, and we shall lay it down for his scion."
Another voice followed, overlapping the first, softer… yet no less urgent.
"Live and fight another day, Thorwin…"
Then another.
"My child…"
His grip tightened.
"Be strong and kind, I will always be watching you—"
"We will always be watching you."
The voices layered over one another, distant yet deafening, as though they came from every direction at once. They did not linger. They never did. They came, they struck, and they vanished, leaving only the echo behind.
And then there was silence.
Thorwin blinked.
The world snapped back into place.
Strength surged through him.
It came suddenly, violently flooding his limbs, tightening every muscle, sharpening every sense. The sword in his hand felt weightless, as though it were an extension of his will rather than steel forged and tempered. His feet moved before thought could catch up, light against the ground, swift. Too swift.
Falstad was no longer before him.
No… What stood ahead was something else entirely. An enemy. A monster. An orc.
With a burst of motion, he closed the distance in mere heartbeats, his steps carrying him forward with unnatural ease. His blade came up in a clean arc, swift and precise, cutting through the air with intent to cleave. The strike met resistance—a hammer raised in time—but the force behind it was enough to draw surprise from his foe. Steel rang against metal, the impact echoing across the training ground.
He pressed on.
A forward kick followed, aimed clean and direct but the figure before him shifted, dodging with practiced reflex. No hesitation came from Thorwin. He adjusted, recovered, his footing correcting itself almost instinctively. His blade drew back just as his opponent's weapons moved again.
One hammer came down, he parried.
The other followed, he blocked.
The rhythm of battle set in.
Seeing the brief opening, the slight falter in momentum, Thorwin acted without pause. His blade swept horizontally, a clean, decisive strike meant to cut through entirely but the response came just as fast.
The hammer in his foe's right hand was released, thrown into the ground with a force that shifted the angle of the clash. Steel met resistance and was deflected, thrown off its path. In that same breath, an unarmed fist drove forward.
Straight into his chest.
The impact struck like a battering ram.
The air left his lungs in an instant as he was thrown backward, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud.
"Ugh—" He gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright, his chest tightening from the blow. Yet even then, his eyes remained fixed forward; sharp, unyielding, still seeing the enemy before him.
"Boy…"
The voice broke through.
Dwarvish. Familiar.
"I ain't no orc, lad."
The vision faltered.
The monster faded.
And in its place stood Falstad.
The dwarf's expression had shifted, the earlier humor gone, replaced by something far less common; concern. His brows furrowed beneath the weight of it as he stared at the boy now on the ground. "Nor will I ever be yer enemy, Thorwin," Falstad added, his tone firmer now, grounding.
The training ground returned. The air stilled. And the weight of what had just happened settled heavily between them. Thorwin remained where he had fallen for a moment longer than he should have. His chest rose and fell unevenly, breath still catching from the force of the blow, yet it was not the strike that unsettled him. It was himself. What had begun as a simple spar had turned into something else entirely. Something darker. He had not been striking at Falstad—no… in his mind, in that fleeting moment, he had been trying to kill. The thought alone twisted in his chest, heavy with shame. And beneath that shame… fear. Fear of whatever it was that plagued him. Of the memories that refused to stay buried. Of how easily they could take hold of him, bend his mind, turn friend into foe.
"Sorry…" His voice came weak, breath still unsteady as he forced the word out. It felt insufficient. Hollow. Useless against what had just happened. For a moment, he wished—truly wished—that he could tear those memories from his mind. That he could forget the war, forget the screams, forget the blood.
But he could not.
Because within those memories… were the last moments he had of her.
"I'm really sorry, Falstad," he said again, quieter this time, the words weighed down by something deeper than apology. His eyes lifted slowly, and there the dwarf stood before him, solid and unmoved, his expression unreadable for a brief moment.
Then Falstad moved.
A hand stretched out toward him.
"Lad, keep yer sorry arse contained," Falstad muttered, his voice rough but lacking any true bite. "Ain't nothin' to be sorry 'bout."
Thorwin hesitated only a second before reaching out, his hand clasping the dwarf's. The grip was strong and steady, and with a single pull, Falstad hauled him back onto his feet as though he weighed nothing at all.
"Now then," Falstad went on, releasing him with a small grunt, already turning away as if the matter had been settled in his mind. "Let's have a seat an' talk, aye?"
He began walking toward a worn wooden bench at the edge of the training ground, his heavy steps slow but deliberate. There was no rush in him now, no trace of the earlier intensity.
Thorwin followed.
Quietly.
…
"I'm scared," he admitted, and the words left him quieter than he expected, as though saying them aloud made them more real. His gaze dropped for a moment, fingers curling into a tight fist before loosening again, as if he could not decide whether to hold on or let go. "Those memories… they don't leave me. They cling to me, pull me back, whispering like they want me to stay there." His breath caught slightly as he exhaled, shoulders tightening. "And—" He stopped, swallowing hard, then forced himself to continue. Slowly, he turned his head toward Falstad.
The dwarf was still listening.
No interruption. No jest. No mocking remark. Just quiet attention, his expression steadier now, stripped of its earlier humor. It unsettled Thorwin more than he expected—because there was understanding there, raw and unspoken.
"And I lose myself every time," he said at last, the words heavier than the silence before them.
His fist clenched again.
"Every time I remember her… the way she died… and the one responsible…" His jaw tightened, the emotion threatening to spill over into something sharper, more dangerous. "I just want to kill every orc I see. Every single one. Even the ones in those camps they talk about."
The confession hung in the air, ugly and honest.
Then something in him faltered.
As if a sudden cold realization had washed over him, dousing the fire in his chest.
"I know she would hate it…" he murmured, voice dropping. "My mother… she was the kindest person I knew. She hated killing. She always did."
His eyes drifted past Falstad then, toward nothing in particular, as if he were seeing something far beyond the training ground. Something not present.
"She would hate to know I used to dream of it," he continued, quieter now, more fractured. "Even if it was orcs… even if it was children…" His fist tightened again, knuckles whitening. "But she's not here anymore… she can't tell me I'm wrong."
Silence lingered for a heartbeat.
Then Falstad shifted slightly on the bench, exhaling through his nose as he leaned back with a rough scrape of wood beneath him.
"Lad," he began, voice slower now, heavier in a way that carried less jest and more weight. "Ain't no denying killing's wrong. That's somethin' I won't sugarcoat fer ye." He paused, scratching his beard thoughtfully before giving a short, crooked chuckle. "But if I start drawin' moral lines any straighter, I'd probably fall over tryin' to find 'em."
The humor lingered only briefly before fading.
His tone shifted again; steadier, firmer.
"Point is," Falstad continued, looking at him properly now, "everyone in that blasted pit swore themselves to ye. To stand behind ye. And I'll stand behind ye too, lad. So long as ye don't cross the line I won't cross with ye."
A beat passed.
Then, softer—less jest, more truth.
"An' I'm fairly certain yer mother… she wouldn't hate what ye've become, or what ye're tryin' to be." His gaze sharpened slightly, thoughtful. "But I'd wager all the ale in the Khazs that she'd be mighty displeased that the past still has its hands around yer throat."
Thorwin remained silent for a while, the weight of Falstad's words settling over him in slow, uneven layers. He did not respond immediately, not because he had nothing to say, but because for once, the noise in his head had quieted just enough for him to think clearly. His gaze lingered on the ground, tracing idle patterns in the dirt, as if the answer he needed might somehow be written there. Then, without warning, a firm hand came down on his shoulder.
"Aye, lad," Falstad said, giving him a light but grounding clap that jolted him slightly out of his thoughts. "Ye'd best start packin' yer things. Can't be havin' that unruly girl o' yours throwin' a fit again tomorrow."
The remark cut through the tension like a blade through cloth.
For a brief second, Thorwin just stared—then it hit him.
A laugh escaped him.
It started small, almost reluctant, as if he wasn't entirely sure he was allowed to feel it. But it grew quickly after that, easing something tight in his chest, loosening the knots in his shoulders. The sound felt strange at first, unfamiliar after everything that had been weighing him down, yet it came easier the longer it lingered. Even the memory of what he had been drowning in earlier seemed just a fraction less sharp.
Falstad grunted in approval, clearly pleased with the reaction.
"Tha's more like it," the dwarf muttered, rolling his shoulders as he stepped back slightly. His tone shifted again, slipping naturally into something lighter, almost nostalgic. "I cannae wait to get back an' show ye some o' our delicacies… though," he paused, scratching his beard thoughtfully, "reckon that city ye'll be stayin' in is a fair bit o' distance away from me home."
A grin tugged at Falstad's lips, wide and unbothered, as if distance was nothing more than a trivial inconvenience rather than a real boundary.
"Ah well," Falstad continued, waving a hand dismissively as if distance meant very little to him. "I'll just have to bring me gryphon when I visit ye then, won't I?"
That word—
Gryphon.
It cut through Thorwin's wandering thoughts immediately.
His head lifted almost at once, attention snapping into place with sudden clarity. There was a spark there now, buried beneath exhaustion and memory, something unmistakably alive. He had heard Falstad speak of them before, more than once. Always with that same pride, that same reverence. And once, in passing, the dwarf had even spoken of a promise: a gryphon of his own when he came of age. A creature of sky and storm, Falstad had called them before. The mount of wanderers.
Thorwin's fingers twitched slightly at the memory.
He could see it now; vast wings cutting through open skies, wind tearing past as the world fell away beneath them.
He swallowed his anticipation, barely containing it.
"Can't you just gift me one to ride on now?" he asked suddenly, the words slipping out before he could temper them. There was a faint edge of excitement beneath his voice now, something rare and unguarded. "I promise… I'd take good care of it."
Falstad let out a sharp snort.
"Now ye're wishin' fer too much, lad," the dwarf shot back immediately, though there was no real bite to it. He planted his hands on his hips, shaking his head as if deeply offended by the suggestion. "I gotta wait fer me beloved gryph tae lay out its eggs first!"
He huffed dramatically, as though burdened by great responsibility.
Then, with a final dismissive wave, he turned slightly away.
"Best I get on tae me whiskey," Falstad added, already beginning to walk off toward the manor kitchen. "Ye people take far too much advantage o' this handsome dwarf, aye?"
His boots thudded lightly against the ground as he left, voice fading into the distance.
Thorwin watched him go.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then—
"—Falstad."
The dwarf paused mid-step.
He did not turn.
Thorwin hesitated, just briefly, as if the words carried more weight than he expected them to.
"Thank you for being here," he said quietly.