The village of Windhill was in chaos. Shouts of alarm echoed through the night as villagers scrambled to defend their homes from a sudden raid. A band of ruthless thieves had descended upon the village, pillaging and burning everything in their path, thickening the air with the acrid scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood.
"Mr. Eriksson! What do we do!?" a villager cried.
"We do what we must, Walt: hold the line!" the old man rasped. "We can't let these scum take our homes!"
Mr. Eriksson, the village head, stood at the forefront of the defence, with a weathered yet well-maintained sword clutched in his hand. Beside him were a handful of brave villagers, hastily armed with whatever they could find, be they pitchforks, axes, or even kitchen knives. They fought valiantly, desperately trying to repel the invaders, but they were outnumbered and outmatched, and the chaos only grew with every passing second as the terrified cries of villagers continued to resound in the night.
The villagers' screams grew louder as another home was set ablaze. Mr. Eriksson's heart clenched. He knew that house; the Festivus family lived there, and the raiders whooped as flames devoured their home. The family; father, mother, and son, knelt forlorn before their burning home. They were paralysed by shock, unable to comprehend the horror unfolding before them. The boy, only five years old, clung to his mother for support, his wide eyes reflecting the raging inferno before him.
"Poppa, what's happening? Why did they burn our house?" the boy's voice trembled with fear.
His father, Mr. Festivus, looked down at his son, his heart breaking. He could only place an assuring hand on the boy's cheek.
"That's it, boys! Take everything you like, burn down anything you don't! Let everyone know that we, the Burning Wyverns, mean business!"
The source of the shout emerged from the shadows a second later. He was the raid leader, a tower of a man whose very presence exuded malice. His cruel eyes gleamed in the firelight as they were fixed upon the family. He grinned at the sight of them cowering before him, and his grin grew wider when he drew his sword, taking a moment to admire the blade catching the flickering light of the fire from the burning house before him.
"Well, I suppose this was touching, and all…" the raid leader sneered, raising his sword. "The snivelling brat goes first."
Nathan's mother let out a desperate scream, clutching her son against her chest. "No! Please, not my boy!"
But before the leader could bring his sword down, Mr. Festivus surged forward, his paternal instinct overriding his fear. "No!" he cried out, throwing himself in front of his family. The sword cut a deep gash down Mr. Festivus' back, and the force of the blow sent him to the ground with a loud thud.
"Poppa!" the boy screamed, his small voice piercing the night.
Even with her heart shattered from her husband's cruel death, the woman tried to shield Nathan with her body. But the raid leader's cruel blade found her as well. She fell beside her husband summoning the last of her energies to caress her son's terrified face. "Be strong, Nathan…" was the last thing she said as she breathed her last.
The boy, Nathan, stood frozen in shock as his mind struggled to process what had just happened to his parents. The world around him blurred, the flames and screams merging into a nightmare he couldn't escape. The raid leader sneered, his blade poised to carve the boy open.
Then, from beyond the burning homes, a desperate cry rang out: "Adventurers! Adventurers are here!"
The shout carried over the chaos, rippling through the battlefield like a shockwave. The villagers who still fought found renewed hope, their despair momentarily pushed aside. The raiders, once confident in their rampage, hesitated for the first time that night.
A sudden clash of steel cut through the cacophony. From the darkness, armoured warriors, robed mages, and nimble rogues charged to the rescue, their weapons flashing in the firelight. One of the fighters swung his hulking axe and tore through a raider's chest, sending him crumpling to the ground. A fulgurmancer wove through the night, and with a flick of his wrist, tendrils of lightning arced through a cluster of marauders, their screams drowned by the crackling energy.
Leading the charge was an old swordsman, his blue gambeson billowing as he moved with a speed and precision that belied his age. His worn but keen blade sang through the air, striking down any raiders who dared stand before him. One marauder barely had time to turn before his throat was split open in a single stroke. Another raised a sword in defence, but the old man sidestepped the attack effortlessly, his counterstrike driving deep into his foe's chest.
The raiders, caught off guard, faltered. A moment ago, they had been the hunters. Now, they were prey.
The raid leader glared at the interlopers, and he gnashed his teeth into paste at the sight of the skilled old swordsman. He left the boy he had been toying with, dead set on killing the so-called hero first. "You're ruining my sport, old man!" the raid leader snarled, his blade flashing as he lunged towards his foe.
But the old swordsman moved first. A single step, and the last thing the raider heard before his head tumbled from his shoulders was a sharp whistling sound, coming from a blade he didn't see coming, and his body crumpled on the ground as his sword clattered beside him.
The old man exhaled, lowering his blade. "You're outplayed, schweinhund."
With the arrival of the adventurers, the beleaguered villagers found new strength, their fear giving way to fury as they struck back against their tormentors. Farmers armed with pitchforks and woodcutters wielding axes fought alongside battle-hardened warriors, turning their desperate defence into a relentless counterattack, cutting through the demoralised raiders with a similar mercilessness inflicted upon the villagers. The old swordsman resumed his position at the spearhead, his blade a blur as he carved a path through the remaining marauders, each strike swift and unerring. As the raiders' confidence shattered, their cohesion crumbled. Some stood their ground and fell where they stood; the rest fled into the night. By the time the battle waned, Windhill still stood, battered but unbroken, its people bloodied but victorious.
The old swordsman didn't stop to enjoy his victory, instead returning to the charred remains of the Festivus house in haste. He was relieved to see Nathan still kneeling before his parents' corpses, his hardened expression softening as he saw the fear and sorrow in the boy's eyes. Without a word, he sheathed his sword and knelt beside the child.
"It's over now, kleiner Freund," he said gently, the rough edges of his Teutonic accent giving his words an unfamiliar warmth. "You're safe."
Nathan couldn't respond, his eyes still wide with shock. The old swordsman's fingers tightened briefly on the hilt of his blade. He looked down at the boy, who clung to his gambeson with silent, trembling hands. With a sigh, he carefully lifted Nathan, holding him close as if shielding him from the world's cruelty for just a moment longer. The old swordsman carried Nathan away from the devastation, his heart heavy with the knowledge that this child's life would never be the same.
The morning sun rose over Windhill some hours later, casting a sombre light on the village graveyard where a funeral was being held. The village had come together, their faces etched with grief as they laid the victims of the previous night's raid to rest. The old swordsman and his party had stayed the night to assist the villagers and pay their respects. They worked with a solemnity that reflected the gravity of the situation. In his blue gambeson now stained with the night's grime, the old man dug alongside Mr. Eriksson, their movements measured, with each shovel of the earth a tribute to those who had been lost.
Nathan stood near the graves, his small frame dwarfed by the enormity of the loss. He was surrounded by the quiet murmurs of the villagers and the occasional clink of the adventurers' armours. There was a certain sense of serenity drawn on his face, and there were no tears on his cheeks. The villagers exchanged glances, marvelling at the boy's composure.
"What a strong little lad." one villager whispered.
Mr. Eriksson furrowed his brow. The boy stood motionless, his small hands clenched at his sides. No tears, no cries, just a hollow, unreadable look in his eyes. It was a look Mr. Eriksson had seen before in soldiers worn down by war, but never in a child. The old swordsman seemed to have noticed the same. He approached the boy with a soft, yet authoritative step. His voice, although kind, had an edge of curiosity.
"Why do you not cry, boy?" he asked. "Your parents...they were good people. It is right to mourn them."
Nathan looked up at the old man with eyes that, despite their youth, seemed to hold a depth beyond his years. "I love my momma and poppa... but they wouldn't want me to be sad, right? I don't wanna make them sad. So I won't cry."
The old swordsman exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his blade. He looked at the boy's wide eyes and saw the tremble in his small fists. The swordsman had seen that look before. With a sigh, he rested a hand on Nathan's shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. "Ah, I see. Your parents were wise and loving. But you don't need to force yourself back, you know? It is also okay to cry for them. It helps the heart heal, and I'm sure your parents would want to see you happy again."
"But…my momma told me to be strong…" said Nathan, as his eyes glistened, a few tears escaping despite his effort to hold them back. The old swordsman's gaze softened, his stern demeanour melting into one of understanding.
"Being able to cry for the people you love is strength too, mein Junge." he continued gently, "Crying for your loved ones shows you care for them, and caring for others gives you strength to protect the people you love."
The boy stared at him, puzzled yet curious. He asked, "Do you protect everyone like this?"
The old man chuckled. "If you put it that way, ja. I care for my fellow man. As long as they're good to each other, I give everything to protect them."
Nathan nodded slowly, the boyish pride mingling with his burgeoning sorrow. "Thank you for saving this village, sir. And, thank you for saving me" he said, his voice steady despite his tears.
The old swordsman smiled. It was a rare and tender expression that spoke volumes, and his party members exchanged knowing glances, murmuring with light-hearted amusement at the sight. "It was my honour, young man. And never forget: your love for others is a strength. It will guide you, even when you're alone in darkness."
As the old man stood to leave, he placed a comforting hand on Nathan's head, ruffling his hair gently. The party gathered their things, preparing to depart. The old swordsman looked back one last time, his eyes meeting Nathan's with a look of encouragement. With a wave of his hand, he and his fellow adventurers departed from Windhill. Nathan stood still, his small hands clenched into fists as he watched the warriors fade into the horizon, their capes rippling in the wind. Mr. Eriksson took Nathan's hand and guided him back towards the village, a newfound resolve in his heart to look after the boy.
… … … … …
Mr. Eriksson had taken him in after everything happened. The days that followed were a blur: faces he barely recognized offering quiet condolences, the scent of burnt wood still lingering in the air, and the crushing weight of absence where his parents should have been. Nathan barely remembered the words spoken to him that day, only the hollow ache in his chest.
At night, he would lie awake in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the wooden ceiling. Sometimes, he would close his eyes and imagine his mother's voice, the warmth of his father's arms. But the memories never lasted long. The silence always swallowed them.
He drifted through the days in a haze, unsure of what to do with himself. He helped with chores when asked, ate when food was placed in front of him, and responded when spoken to. But nothing felt real. Nothing felt right.
Then, one morning, he saw Mr. Eriksson training in the yard. The old man moved with slow precision, his wooden sword cutting through the air in steady arcs. The rhythmic sound of each strike against the training post filled the air. Nathan stood at the doorway, watching. His fingers curled into small fists.
Something in him stirred.
That evening, when the house was quiet, Nathan found a stick in the yard and mimicked what he had seen. His movements were clumsy, his grip awkward, but he kept going. The wooden sword his father had once carved for him lay untouched in the corner of his room, but Nathan wasn't ready to pick it up yet. Not yet.
Days passed, and the routine became familiar. He spent hours swinging his makeshift sword, each motion sharper, more controlled. It no longer felt like a game. He wasn't fighting imaginary monsters anymore. He was training. He watched Mr. Eriksson in the mornings, quietly studying the way the old man moved. Every shift in stance, every precise arc of his arms, Nathan took it all in. And when no one was looking, he practised. Again and again, until his limbs ached and his breath came in ragged gasps.
Sometimes, his eyes drifted to the greatsword above the fireplace. It was a relic of Mr. Eriksson's younger days, and Nathan could almost feel the weight of it in his hands, even though he had never touched it. He wanted to be strong enough to wield it, to stand on his own. Someday, he would.
… … … … …
One afternoon, Mr. Eriksson called for him. "Nathan," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "Come here, lad."
Nathan paused mid-swing and looked up, his small chest heaving from exertion. Sweat trickled down his temple, but he paid it no mind as he trotted over, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yes, Mr. Eriksson?"
The old man crouched to meet Nathan at eye level, his gaze serious but kind. "I see that you've been keeping busy with your sword lately. Are you training?"
Nathan didn't hesitate. "Yes, sir, I am," he said, his voice steady with a surprising resolve for a five-year-old.
Mr. Eriksson raised an eyebrow. "Training for what?"
"I want to become an adventurer," Nathan replied, gripping the hilt of his wooden sword a little tighter. "I want to save people, just like that swordsman."
Mr. Eriksson studied the boy for a long moment, searching for the usual flicker of childish fantasy in his eyes. But there was none. Instead, he saw an unshakable determination far beyond his years. The old man felt a pang of something: pride, perhaps? Or was it sadness? It was hard to tell. "Is that so?" he murmured, more to himself than to Nathan.
For weeks, Mr. Eriksson watched with a mix of admiration and concern as Nathan continued his self-imposed training. The boy was relentless, practising every chance he got, pushing himself until exhaustion set in. It was not the carefree play of a child; it was the quiet desperation of someone trying to make himself strong enough. Strong enough for what, Mr. Eriksson wondered. Strength alone would not shape him into a true adventurer. The road demanded more than just unrelenting will.
One evening, after supper, Mr. Eriksson called Nathan into his study. The room was cozy, lined with shelves of old books and maps; remnants of his own adventuring days. The greatsword still hung above the fireplace, its polished surface catching the firelight. Nathan's gaze flickered to it briefly before he turned to Mr. Eriksson.
"Nathan," the old man began, gesturing for the boy to sit beside him at the large oak table. "I want you to read something for me."
Nathan blinked in confusion but quickly nodded. He climbed into the chair and took the book that Mr. Eriksson handed him. He stared at the page, but the letters swam before his eyes. His parents had taught him a little, but reading was still difficult.
"Take your time," Mr. Eriksson encouraged. "Do your best."
Nathan squinted at the page, his lips moving silently as he struggled to make sense of the words. His fingers curled tightly around the edges of the book. He wanted to get it right. But after several minutes of stumbling through the unfamiliar letters, he sighed, shoulders slumping. "I don't know how to read all the words," he admitted, his voice small and tinged with disappointment.
Mr. Eriksson smiled, not unkindly. "That's all right, Nathan. You're doing well. But you know, it takes more than swinging your sword until you're tired to learn how to use it."
Nathan's eyes widened slightly. "It does, sir?"
"Aye, lad." Mr. Eriksson's smile grew. "A swordsman isn't just strong in body, he's also strong in mind. You practice your swings until your arms fall off, but do you understand why you move the way you do? Most great swordsmen before us spent years learning and writing about their techniques. If you want to get better, you must learn from them. Books can teach you what training alone cannot."
Nathan sat in thoughtful silence for a moment. He glanced down at the book in his hands, then back up at Mr. Eriksson. He had always thought that being strong meant wielding a sword well, but now, he wasn't so sure. Finally, his small fingers curled more confidently around the pages. "Yes, please, sir! I want to learn! Please teach me!"
Mr. Eriksson let out a soft chuckle, warmth filling his chest. "Then we begin tonight."
And so, Nathan's first real lesson in swordsmanship began; with a book. Each night, Mr. Eriksson sat with him, guiding him through the basics of reading. They started with simple stories, and as Nathan's reading improved, they moved on to books about swordplay, adventure, and the history of great warriors.
With each passing day, Nathan grew, not just in strength but in wisdom and understanding. Mr. Eriksson knew the road ahead would not be easy for the boy. But he also knew that Nathan had the heart to see it through. And before he was ready to forge his own path, he would learn that true strength was not just in the sword he wielded, but in the mind that guided it.