Twelve weeks had passed since Ere first picked up the wooden sword.
At the beginning, everything had felt wrong. Every swing too slow. Every block too late.
Now—it was different.
Enough to notice that he was a natural—far more talented than his age suggested.
He saw it in his body.
His shoulders had begun to take shape beneath his shirt, no longer as narrow as before. His arms, still thin, carried a quiet firmness built from repetition—swing after swing, climb after climb.
Even his footing had changed.
More weight, even if he was still small.
During training, he lasted longer now.
Mika's strikes still came fast—controlled, deliberate—but Ere no longer broke under them immediately.
He forced Mika to step back.
Enough for the clash of wood against wood to feel less like punishment—and more like a conversation.
But he hadn't stopped there.
When the yard fell quiet, Ere continued.
Alone.
The dagger never left his side.
Each night, when the village settled into silence, he moved again—short steps, sharp turns, controlled breaths.
The difference was immediate.
The sword had weight.
Space.
Discipline.
The dagger—didn't.
It moved with him.
Not against him.
No wasted motion.
If the sword demanded control—the dagger responded to instinct.
And instinct came easier.
More natural, more… him.
He never said it, not to Mika but he knew. If he faced him now with the dagger—he would win.
That thought didn't stay long.
Something else pushed it aside.
That distant red glow beyond the forest.
He had seen it once—and it hadn't left him since.
It didn't flicker.
Waiting.
Calling.
He couldn't explain it.
Only that each day he ignored it—the weight grew.
Fear wasn't holding him back from checking it.
He had already died once.
Fear had lost its shape after that.
This life—still felt borrowed.
Something placed in his hands, not something he had earned.
He had already decided.
Tonight.
Behind the house, in the small yard where his mother dried clothes, Ere had built something.
Crude.
A shape made from bundled branches, tied together with uneven twine.
He filled it with straw.
Dirt.
Old cloth.
Until it resembled something close to him.
Just enough to deceive the eye.
If it held until morning—that would be enough.
Night came slowly.
The village softened beneath it.
Light faded into shadow.
The air cooled, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant flowers that only opened in darkness.
Inside, dinner was nearly ready.
There was one more thing.
He needed to say something to them.
The world beyond the village didn't promise anything.
And if he didn't return—he didn't want to leave in silence.
Mika stood near the doorway, preparing for his night watch.
A spear rested against his shoulder.
The firelight caught the lines in his face—old scars, quiet exhaustion, something steady beneath it all.
Ere stopped.
The words didn't come immediately.
Then—"Mika."
The name felt unfamiliar.
Mika froze slightly.
Ere looked away.
"…I appreciate the training."
A pause.
"Today… and before."
His voice lowered.
"It helped me."
Simple.
But real.
Mika didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
A slow smile formed—quiet, proud.
He stepped forward, placing a rough hand on Ere's shoulder.
Firm.
Steady.
Then he left.
The warmth of that touch lingered.
Ere returned inside.
Janna sat at the table, candlelight shifting softly across her pale hair. Silver strands caught the glow, turning faintly gold. Her long ears framed her face, delicate in the dim light.
Ere sat.
The soup in front of him had begun to cool.
Simple.
He lifted the spoon.
Paused.
Then—"This is the best food I've ever eaten."
The words came without warning.
Janna stilled.
Her hand hovered near the table.
She looked at him—fully.
For a moment, he thought—he had made a mistake.
Then her eyes softened.
Tears followed.
She pulled him into an embrace.
Warm.
Close.
Ere didn't move.
Part of him meant it.
If he didn't return—he wanted this moment to remain.
Something she could keep.
He didn't understand why it mattered.
Only that it did.
Later—the house fell silent.
The dummy lay in his bed—still, silent, convincing enough in the dim light.
Ere moved to the window.
Then he slipped outside.
The village was quiet.
Shadows stretched long between wooden homes.
He moved through them without sound, keeping low, avoiding open spaces.
The wall came into view—rough logs bound tightly together, rising like a silent barrier against the night. A boundary. A line drawn between safety and whatever waited beyond. Ere slowed as he approached the spot he had chosen earlier, where the wood curved slightly inward and old crates leaned against it, worn and forgotten. Enough.
He climbed.
Fingers pressing into narrow gaps between the logs.
At the top—he stopped.
Just for a moment.
He looked back.
The village lay beneath him.
Then he dropped.
The distance between him and the village was only a wall.
But it felt like more.
Something invisible—had been crossed.
He didn't look back again.
There was no turning back now.