The sun peeked through the small, foggy window, casting soft golden light across the wooden floor of the farmhouse. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains, and the faint scent of earth lingered from the night's rain. The room was quiet except for the slow, rhythmic breathing of a boy wrapped in a patchwork quilt.
Orka stirred awake, still half-asleep and buried under the cozy covers. He felt warm and snug, but a faint voice filtered through the walls and reached his ears. It was soft and a bit muffled, but it was enough to pull him out of his comfortable daze, making him wonder what was going on outside his little cocoon.
The creak of the door jolted him awake, but the warmth of his bed kept him wrapped in a cozy cocoon of sleep. Even as his mom slipped into the room, her voice floated through the fog of his dreams.
Audrey entered the room and smiled at her child, who was sleeping soundly. "Orka," she said softly, her tone gentle and caring. "It's time to wake up. I'm heading to the clinic."
The sound of her words faded in and out, like a distant melody. He squinted against the slant of sunlight that broke through his curtains, illuminating the room with a warm glow. Despite the warmth of the morning, the comfort of sleep tugged at him, making it hard to shake off the lingering dreams.
Orka groaned, feeling groggy as he muttered, "Mmm... it's too early..."
A soft, melodic laugh floated in the air, light and reminiscent of wind chimes dancing gently in the morning breeze.
Audrey gently smiled at him, her eyes filled with warmth. "You know, if you don't get out of bed right now, you'll end up sleeping the whole day away," she said softly, encouraging him to rise and embrace the day ahead.
Orka cracked one eye open, struggling against the weight of sleep, and caught a glimpse of his mother's warm silhouette framed in the doorway, radiant against the soft morning light.
Orka mumbled sleepily, "Can't you cure sleepiness too?"
With a warm smile, Audrey replied, "Not quite, but breakfast is ready and waiting. Don't let it get cold."
She stepped closer, brushing his tousled hair from his forehead, and placed a quick, affectionate kiss before leaving the room. The scent of bread and stew lingered behind her, coaxing him to wake fully.
Orka lay still for a moment, allowing the morning sounds to fill his mind—the creaking of wood as the house settled and the distant cawing of crows outside. Reluctantly, he tossed aside the quilt and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The wooden floor felt cold beneath his feet, causing him to shiver.
He slipped on his worn brown shorts and tucked his white shirt into place, yawning as he padded down the hall. Rubbing his eyes, he entered the kitchen, where the rich aroma of freshly baked bread greeted him.
Jerry was already at the table, hunched over a bowl of stew. His rugged hands were wrapped around the spoon, and his eyes remained fixed on the food, barely acknowledging Orka's arrival. Russel was setting out another bowl, his movements careful and precise.
Orka slumped onto the bench with a heavy sigh, fighting off the remnants of sleep that clung to him like a fog.
Jerry stirred his stew with a frown, not looking at Orka. "I see you're up late again. You know, you're wasting half the day like this."
Orka yawned widely and rubbed his eyes. "Training's tiring. I need to rest."
Russel gave him a sly grin, struggling to suppress a chuckle.
Russel grinned and said, "It's more like having fun with sticks!"
Orka shot his brother a glare filled with frustration, but Jerry remained unfazed, continuing to eat stew.
Orka murmured, "It's not playing! Uncle Tom said I'm getting better at it."
Jerry let out an exasperated grunt. "You can practice all you want after chores are done. Those hay bales aren't going to move themselves, and the chickens need feeding. Do you remember what happened last time you left the coop open?"
Orka hesitated for a moment, furrowing his brow as memories of spending hours trying to catch a chicken resurfaced.
With a guilty expression, Orka muttered, "It was just one chicken..."
With a smirk on his face, Russel said, "It took three long hours to catch it, and even with Joseph's daughter getting involved."
Orka felt his face heat up at the embarrassing memory. That particular chicken led them on a wild chase around the yard, clucking furiously as if it were enjoying the game.
Mira had laughed at his failed attempts to catch it, darting around him with ease, her energetic spirit shining that day as she bounded playfully from one spot to another, her laughter ringing through the air like a joyful melody.
Jerry sighed, his tone softening slightly.
Jerry finished his soup and put down the spoon. "You'll help Russell with the hay, and don't run off to Tom until it's done, understood?"
Orka muttered under his breath, "Understood..."
After breakfast, Orka looked out the window and noticed the morning dew still clinging to the grass.
He hesitated for a moment, watching Russel grab the pitchfork and head toward the barn.
A pang of guilt tugged at him, but he found himself already moving forward.
He slipped out of the side door, grabbed the carved stick he had been working on—a crude imitation of a sword—and dashed toward the village gate. The fence loomed ahead, but he nimbly hopped over it, landing with a soft thud.
Orka whispered, "If I leave now, I can train before chores. Russel won't even notice." He hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the absence of Russel, who wasn't there.
The village was slowly waking up, with smoke curling from the chimneys and birds chattering in the trees.
Orka quickened his pace, excitement bubbling in his chest. He knew that Tom would likely give him a lecture, but the thought of practicing new moves made it worth the risk.
As Orka approached the training ground, the crisp air nipped at his cheeks, invigorating his senses. In the center of the open field, Uncle Tom stood like a seasoned warrior, honing his spear thrusts with a practiced precision that spoke of endless dedication.
Each movement was a masterful dance, flowing with a grace that could only come from years of hard work and discipline. It was as if he embodied the very essence of spearmanship, unyielding, carving its path through the landscape.
Orka couldn't tear his eyes away, captivated by the display of power and skill that seemed almost otherworldly. The rhythmic swish of the spear slicing through the air filled him with a sense of awe and a desire to learn.
Tom glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised, not surprised by what he saw.
Tom smirked and said, "You skipped out on your chores again, didn't you?"
Orka froze, scratching his head in embarrassment while still recovering from the amazing display of spear mastery Tom had shown earlier.
Embarrassed, Orka froze and replied, "Uh... maybe?" He glanced at Tom, who was now placing down his spear, and with sparkling eyes, he asked, "Are you really just a guard, or are you some kind of knight in disguise?"
Hearing this, Tom laughed and leaned the spear against his shoulder. "Nope, I'm just a simple guard for this village. We rarely get any visitors, maybe just a few merchants every month or so. Knights are much stronger than I am; I wouldn't even be able to land a hit if I had to go up against them." He shook his head.
"Really?" Orka felt down but realized that so many strong people existed for him to challenge in the future. "I'll become as strong as you and show them who's the real deal!"
Noticing that Orka's expression brightened instead of fading, he allowed himself a small smile. "Anyway, if Jerry finds out, you're on your own," he said with a grin. "Do you really enjoy my lessons so much that you come here every day?"
Orka bounced on his toes and happily grabbed the makeshift sword from his waist. "Can I learn a super cool new skill today?" he asked, his eyes all wide with excitement."
Tom sighed and lightly tapped Orka with a spear. Orka groaned, "Stance again? Why..." Despite his complaints, he took an amateurish stance with the sword, recalling his past mistakes.
"Without it, you're merely waving a stick around. Stand with your feet apart, knees slightly bent, and keep your weight balanced."
Orka shuffled into position, his body still stiff from sleep. Tom watched with sharp eyes, and after a while of observing, he nodded in approval when Orka maintained the proper stance.
Tom smiled and said, "Remember, don't just swing. Think about your aim. A wild, careless swing leaves you vulnerable. A no swing is better than a bad one."
Orka tried to swing forward, but his balance wavered. Tom caught his shoulder to stop him from falling. He sighed and said, "You're overthinking it. Just go with the flow. Don't force your movements; if you relax, it will come naturally after enough practice."
As they continued, Orka's form improved bit by bit. Tom's calm, steady presence helped him focus. For a moment, the world shrank to just the rhythm of practice—thrust, step, recover.
After a long while, Tom straightened up and wiped the sweat from his brow. "It's quite hot today," he said. He glanced at Orka, who was still awkwardly shifting his stance, clearly frustrated by his own clumsiness. Tom grinned and raised his voice so Orka could hear him. "Now that I think about it, your birthday is coming up—the first autumn rain, right?"
Orka nodded and asked, "Could you get me a sword?" Tom laughed and shook his head, saying, "There's no use for a sword if you don't know how to use it."
Tom closed one eye while half resting, "You might be wondering why I keep emphasizing stance. You want to learn something flashy, right? Something that looks impressive?"
Orka's eyes sparkled with curiosity, his earlier frustration fading as anticipation took hold.
Orka looked eagerly, "You're actually going to teach me?"
Tom shook his head, a sly grin playing at the edges of his lips, "Not a chance. Fancy tricks are just distractions for those who refuse to master the basics."
He lifted his spear, the blade gleaming in the morning sun. Stepping forward, he took a deep, grounding breath, his posture shifting subtly.
Orka watched, captivated, as Tom planted his feet firmly, gripping the spear with practiced ease.
Tom calmly said, "Watch closely."
With a single, fluid motion, Tom thrust the spear forward. The movement was so swift and precise that the air itself seemed to ripple.
A gust of wind followed, rustling the grass in a wave that seemed to dance from his feet to the end of the training ground.
Orka's hair whipped back, and he felt a chill run down his spine as if the spear had just grazed past him.
His eyes widened, mouth slightly agape.
Orka opened his mouth while in awe, "How... How did you do that?"
Tom lowered the spear, tapping it lightly on the ground., "That wasn't some fancy trick. It's just a basic thrust, done right. No wasted movement, no hesitation."
Orka blinked, still trying to process what he'd just seen, "But... it felt like a storm just hit."
Tom chuckled, though his tone remained serious, "That's because when you get the basics right, they hit harder than anything flashy. I spent years trying to learn showy moves. Thought they'd make me stronger. Turns out, the simple things, done perfectly, are far more dangerous."
He leaned the spear against his shoulder, flexing his hand as if trying to shake off an ache. Orka didn't notice, his thoughts spinning.
Orka said to himself, "So... mastering the basics is the real secret?"
Tom gave him a firm nod, "Exactly. Do you want to be strong? Start by not tripping over your own feet. A bad stance leaves you wide open. A good one can withstand the strongest hit."
Orka felt a renewed determination building inside him. He straightened his posture, gripping his practice sword with a sense of purpose.
Orka said with determination, "I... I get it now. Basics first!"
Tom smiled, the tiredness in his eyes softening for a moment.
Tom ruffled his hair, "Good. Keep that in mind, no matter what you're training. Now, go before your dad finds out you've been slacking again. You won't learn everything in a day."
Orka couldn't help but grin, giving one last practice slash before dashing off, his excitement carrying him back to the farm.
Tom watched him go, a faint smile lingering. Then he glanced down at his own hand, flexing his fingers. Redness marked his palm where he had gripped the spear too tightly. He muttered, "If only... I wasn't so worn out. The boy needs someone better to teach him."
He shook off the thought, planting the spear in the ground and leaning on it, resuming his watch over the quiet village.
Quite a while passed while Orka jogged back, cheeks flushed from the run. He feels invigorated, repeating the slash motion in the air as he goes.
As he rounds the barn, he spots Russel struggling to lift a hay bale. Sweat beads on Russel's forehead and his breathing is labored.
Orka ran closer while concerned, "Hey, need help?" He smiled
Russel glanced up, forcing a smile despite his flushed face and heavy breathing, "You... you skipped again, didn't you?"
Orka looked away, "Uh... maybe a little."
Russel sighed, "You're hopeless. Just... help me with this."
As they lift the hay bale together, Orka notices that Russel's shirt is damp, and his face seems paler than usual.
Orka frowned, "You okay? You look tired."
Russel wiped the sweat from his forehead, "Just... hot... it is summer after all..."
They manage to move the hay, but Orka can't shake the uneasy feeling.
Russel sat down and took a deep breath, "Go feed the chickens... I'll... take a minute here."
Orka hesitates but nods, heading toward the coop, casting worried glances back.
Orka trudged toward the chicken coop, his mind still buzzing with thoughts of Uncle Tom's demonstration.
He could still feel the gust from the spear as if it had passed right through him.
His imagination ran wild, picturing himself one day mastering a move like that—striking with such force that even the wind obeyed.
As he neared the coop, the familiar smell of hay and feathers greeted him. A few chickens clucked lazily, pecking at the ground.
Orka grabbed a bucket of feed from the small shed and scattered it on the ground with a smug grin, "Alright, featherbrains, time to eat!"
The chickens swarmed around him, flapping and jostling for space. One particularly bold henpecked his boot, as if demanding more.
Orka noticed one of the chickens wasn't moving. It sat off to the side, feathers looking oddly dull and patchy. He knelt down, tilting his head curiously, "Hey... what's wrong with you?"
The chicken ruffled its feathers and let out a pitiful cluck. Orka noticed a single vibrant feather on the ground nearby—a streak of color against the dust. Orka picked it up in awe, "Wow... That's pretty neat. Looks like something from one of those fancy birds Dad talks about."
He tied the feather around the string on his shorts, feeling a small sense of pride at his little decoration which made him smile.
He turned back to the house, satisfied with the feeding, when his gaze fell on the pile of hay bales. Russel wasn't there. Orka's heart skipped a beat.
Orka called out, "Russel? You done already?"
Rounding the corner, his expression turned dark as he spotted Russel lying on the ground, curled up near the hay.
Orka panicked, "Russel! Hey! Wake up!" He dropped to his knees, shaking his brother's shoulder. Russel's skin felt hot, and his breathing was shallow and rapid. Sweat clung to his forehead, trickling down like tiny rivulets.
Orka's voice trembled, "Come on... say something!" Russel mumbled incoherently, his hands twitching.
Without another thought, Orka shot to his feet and sprinted back toward the house. He found Jerry by the woodpile, the sound of chopping echoing through the yard.
Orka ran close while being out of his breath, "Dad! Dad! Russel... he's... something's wrong!"
Jerry looked up, his grip tightening on the axe, "Explain, what's got you so worked up?"
Orka: pointed to the direction of the farm, "It's Russel! He collapsed! He's burning up!"
Jerry's expression hardened, and he dropped the axe, rushing toward the barn. Orka followed, heart pounding. As they reached Russel, Jerry knelt beside him, pressing a hand to his son's forehead, "Fever... worse than I thought."
Jerry scooped Russel into his arms, his face set with worry, and hurried into the house. Orka trailed behind, biting his lip. Audrey was just returning from the clinic when they entered, her eyes widening at the sight. She rushed up and asked, "What happened?"
Jerry grimed and said, "Fever hit him hard. Just collapsed while moving hay."
They laid Russel on the bed, his breathing shallow and uneven. Orka stood at the foot of the bed, clutching Russel's hand like a lifeline.
Audrey placed her hands gently on Russel's forehead, closing her eyes. A soft, warm light radiated from her palms—a faint golden glow. Orka watched, feeling a glimmer of hope. But as the light faded, Audrey's face grew more puzzled. Audrey whispered, "It's not working..."
Jerry frowned as he tightened his grip, "What do you mean?"
She shook her head and answered, "His fever... it's not responding to healing." She pulled her hands away, visibly shaken. Orka's heart sank.
Orka raised his voice, "Why not? Isn't healing supposed to fix everything?"
Audrey nodded, "Normally... yes. But when a fever like this doesn't respond, it can only mean one thing." She glanced at Jerry, concern etched on her face, "It's an ability fever. His power... it's awakening."
Orka's eyes widened, "You mean... Russel has a power?"
Jerry sighed in relief, "Seems like it. Sometimes the body goes into overdrive when an ability first appears. Some kids get fevers, some just collapse like this."
Audrey reached for a wet cloth, dabbing at Russel's forehead. As the dampness touched his skin, Orka noticed something strange—the beads of sweat on Russel's neck started to rise, hovering in the air like tiny droplets suspended by invisible threads.
Orka pointed at the obvious, "Look! The sweat... it's floating!"
Audrey froze. A few droplets merged, forming a small, trembling sphere above Russel's shoulder.
Jerry tensed up, "Looks like... water manipulation..."
Suddenly, the bucket of water Orka had brought earlier began to tremble, the surface rippling. A few droplets floated up, swirling around the rim. Orka stepped back, eyes wide.
Audrey stepped back too, "His power... it's reacting to his condition. Water manipulation linked to his fever... It must be tied to his state of mind. It's showing itself unconsciously"
One of the droplets drifted closer, touching Russel's cheek before slipping back into the bucket. The trembling ceased, and the water settled, though Russel's breathing remained labored.
Jerry let out a breath in relief, "So it's true... he's inherited a power."
Orka didn't know whether to feel worried or amazed. He glanced at his brother's peaceful face, feeling a pang of jealousy mixed with concern.
Orka whispered, "Russel... why didn't you tell me?"
Audrey placed a hand on his shoulder gently, "It's not something he chose. Just... something that's part of him now."
Jerry sighed, "We'll keep him cool and let it run its course. If it's an ability fever, it'll pass once his body adapts."
Orka nodded, determined to stay by his brother's side.
Night fell, and the room remained dimly lit by the glow of a single lantern.
Orka sat at the bedside, watching over Russel. Despite the uncertainty, he couldn't help but feel a strange excitement bubbling under his worry.
As Russel's breathing evened out, Orka stayed close, gripping the colorful feather. He knew things would never quite be the same, but whatever came next, he'd be ready...