The sun hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the training field. Alph stood at the center, gripping a wooden practice sword with sweaty palms. His eyes darted between Hemlock and Borin, trying to gauge what lay ahead.
"Relax your grip," Borin instructed, his voice carrying the authority of experience. "You need to be flexible, not rigid."
Alph adjusted his hold, feeling the weight of the wooden sword shift slightly in his hands. He nodded, trying to absorb every word.
"First lesson: distance," Borin continued, pacing slowly around Alph. "Knowing your reach and your opponent's is crucial."
Hemlock watched from the edge of the field, his presence a steadying force for Alph. The old druid's eyes never left him, offering silent encouragement.
"Watch," Borin said, taking a stance opposite Alph. He extended his arm, the tip of his practice sword just out of reach. "This is where you want to keep your enemy—close enough to strike but far enough to avoid their blows."
Alph mimicked Borin's stance, trying to internalize the lesson. The weight of his new responsibilities pressed on him like an invisible burden.
"Good," Borin acknowledged with a nod. "Now, let's see how you move."
With that, Borin lunged forward, a fluid motion that belied his size. Alph barely had time to react, stepping back clumsily as Borin's sword sliced through the air where he had just stood.
"Too slow," Borin chided gently. "You must anticipate. Watch my shoulders and hips; they'll tell you where I'm going before my sword does."
Alph's mind raced as he tried to focus on Borin's movements. He watched intently as Borin repeated the lunge, this time managing a more graceful sidestep.
"Better," Borin said approvingly. "But don't just react—act. Draw your opponent into your rhythm."
Borin demonstrated a series of attacks and parries, each move flowing seamlessly into the next. He seemed to dance around Alph, who struggled to keep up but found himself learning through sheer repetition.
"Now try again," Borin instructed, stepping back into position.
Alph moved forward cautiously, watching for those subtle shifts in Borin's posture. When he saw Borin's shoulder dip slightly, he anticipated the incoming strike and raised his sword in defense. Their wooden blades clacked together.
"Good!" Borin's voice carried approval and a hint of pride. "Now keep pushing me; don't let me dictate the fight."
They continued sparring under the summer sun. Sweat dripped down Alph's brow as he gradually found a rhythm with Borin's movements. The practice swords clashed repeatedly, each impact driving home another lesson.
"Remember," Borin said between breaths, "it's not just about physical strength but controlling the flow of battle."
Alph nodded again and adjusted his stance for better balance. He began experimenting with feints and quick thrusts, trying to throw off Borin's timing. A few moves worked; most didn't—but each failure was met with patient guidance from Borin.
As their session wore on into late afternoon shadows began stretching across the field Hemlock finally stepped forward.
"Enough for today," Hemlock announced softly but firmly.
Borin lowered his practice sword and wiped sweat from his forehead with an arm already streaked with dirt and effort.
Hemlock stepped closer, the sunlight catching the silver strands of his hair. His gaze settled on Alph, who stood panting from exertion.
"You've shown promise with your magical abilities," Hemlock began, a hint of warmth in his tone. "But your progress in physical combat lags behind."
Alph felt a flush creep up his neck. He nodded, acknowledging the truth in Hemlock's words.
"Don't let that discourage you," Hemlock continued, a twinkle in his eye. "With consistent practice, you'll refine your skills." He gestured toward the field where Borin rested, leaning against a nearby tree. "Borin has spent years honing his craft; patience is key."
Alph straightened, determination flooding him.
"As for your studies," Hemlock said, shifting topics, "focus on mastering one type of spell module before dabbling in others." He chuckled softly. "Chasing multiple rabbits at the same time only leaves you hungry."
Alph chuckled as well, imagining himself sprinting after elusive rabbits through the snow.
"Pick a path," Hemlock advised, his expression serious once more. "When you've built a solid foundation with one spell, then you can explore others without losing your way."
Alph recognized this. He had already resolved to train with Frozen Armament until it became instinctual for him.
Hemlock gazed at the setting sun. "I wonder if Torsten has reached Stoneford yet. Do you think he secured reinforcements from Baron Ashworth?"
Borin approached, a reassuring smile on his face. "Don't worry, Teacher Hemlock. Torsten knows what he's doing. He'll find a solution."
In the dimly lit private meeting quarters of the Stoneford Mercenary Guild, the atmosphere buzzed with unspoken tension. Torsten leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his rugged features betraying an inner storm of worry. Geoffrey paced nearby, his brow furrowed as he mentally prepared for their audience.
The door creaked open, and the vice chief entered, flanked by two young men and a woman. Ben Richards strode in confidently, his burly build filling the space with an air of authority. Beside him walked Mark Turner, whose easy smile contrasted sharply with his worn druidic cloak. Celeste Ravenswood followed closely behind, her elegant robes shimmering even in the low light. Her expression held a mixture of curiosity and skepticism as she took in the sight of Torsten and Geoffrey.
Torsten regarded them carefully; Ben's straightforward demeanor felt familiar, reminiscent of villagers back home who had faced adversity with resilience. Mark's approachable nature put him at ease while Celeste's haughty posture made Torsten wary. He could almost sense her judgmental gaze assessing their worthiness.
The vice chief cleared his throat to draw their attention.
"Ben Richards, Mark Turner, and Celeste Ravenswood," he named each individual while gesturing toward Torsten and Geoffrey. "These are our petitioners from Oakhaven."
"Nice to meet you," Ben remarked plainly, inclining his head to Torsten, who reciprocated the motion with a steady nod.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Mark said, also nodding toward Geoffrey.
Celeste assessed them with a detached demeanor, offering a muted acknowledgment that held no warmth.
The vice chief stepped back, sensing they were ready to converse amongst themselves before departing on this crucial mission.
As soon as they were alone, Torsten straightened up and addressed them earnestly.
"Our village faces threats from mercenaries posing as poachers," he explained. His voice bore the weight of responsibility that came from protecting those he loved. "They're dangerous and likely plan to disrupt our Awakening Ceremony."
Ben listened intently, his brows furrowing slightly as he considered what such an attack could mean for innocent lives caught in the crossfire.
"What do you need us for?" he asked directly.
"Protection," Torsten replied without hesitation. "Our people have little means to defend themselves against seasoned fighters."
Mark nodded slowly but interjected thoughtfully, "How many are we dealing with?"
"Five or six armed men—maybe more," Geoffrey said grimly, recounting what Borin had reported about their encounter in the woods earlier.
Celeste raised an eyebrow at this revelation; she exchanged glances with her companions before leaning forward slightly. "And what do you expect us to do? Risk our lives over this?"
Torsten met her gaze firmly. "I expect you to fight alongside us if it comes down to it." He felt a surge of determination rise within him at that moment; desperation fueled his conviction.
"You think we'll take orders from a village peasant?" Celeste's tone dripped with skepticism but held no outright malice.
"I hold no doubts about your abilities," Torsten responded, his voice trembling slightly with urgency. "You're here because Master Alaric has faith in your potential to assist, and I need that faith more than ever."
Ben stepped closer to defuse any brewing tension between them. "We've all faced tough choices," he reminded Celeste gently before turning back to Torsten.
Ben looked at Torsten and said, "I get it, but we're on a mission here. We can't risk our lives without a good reason."
Mark, off to the side, attempted to recall where he had encountered the name Oakhaven previously. He finally realized that the sense of familiarity stemmed from one of his mentors mentioning that they had a close associate who had retired from their druidic order and established themselves in a quaint village called Oakhaven.
"Torsten," Mark interjected, "do you have an elder druid in your village, perhaps from the Stone-Root Kinship?"
Ben and Celeste exchanged curious glances with Mark, their brows furrowing in unison at his unexpected question. Why was he interested in Oakhaven? It seemed unlikely he had any ties to that remote village, didn't it?
Like a drowning individual grasping for a lifeline, Torsten glanced at Mark. "I am not certain if our village leader belonged to the order you mentioned, but he certainly is a Tier 2 druid."
Mark's expression illuminated with a sudden brightness at Torsten's affirmation; it was as if a long-lost spark had been rekindled within him. "Ben, Celeste," Mark said, turning to them with palpable enthusiasm, "you've got to consider this request! I promise I'll explain everything later when the time is right."
Ben, with his usual directness, nodded in agreement, though he eyed Celeste warily, noticing her clear displeasure at the abrupt change in direction. She gave him a glare filled with annoyance, her brow furrowing as she crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed with Mark's abrupt interjection. However, despite her inherent disdain for the lowborn, she didn't outright refuse, trusting her companions nonetheless.
Unfazed by her scorn, Mark remained oblivious to her discontent. His mind was already racing ahead, envisioning the potential encounter with the genuine circle druid, his heart swelling with hope for the wisdom and guidance he might find there. The thought of meeting someone connected to the esteemed Stone-Root Kinship filled him with a sense of purpose, overshadowing the tension that lingered in the air.
Ben looked at Torsten, who was watching them with eager eyes, a flicker of hope sparking within. "We accept your request," he said. It was as if that acceptance lifted a heavy burden from Torsten's shoulders, one that had weighed on him for far too long.