The sun was barely a suggestion on the horizon when I made my way through the empty streets.
My legs still felt weak from three days of sleep. Every step reminded me how close I'd come to never waking up at all. But Henrik had been clear about the timing.
"Crack of dawn," he'd said. "Not a moment later. The Guardian doesn't appreciate tardiness."
I'd asked what made this man special. Why Henrik thought I needed to meet him. The answer had been typically cryptic.
"Because you need skills I can't teach you. And he needs something to do besides drink himself into an early grave."
The village was different in the pre-dawn darkness. Quieter. More mysterious. Smoke drifted from a few chimneys where early risers were starting their fires. But most of the houses were still dark and silent.
I found the place Henrik had described easily enough. A small house at the edge of the village. Set apart from the others but not unfriendly. Just... separate.
The door opened before I could knock.
"You're late," a gruff voice said.
"The sun isn't even up yet," I protested.
"Exactly. Late."
The man who stood in the doorway was not what I'd expected. Average height. Gray beard shot through with white. Shoulders that suggested he'd once been broader but had settled into comfortable middle age.
His eyes were what caught my attention. Sharp blue. Constantly moving. Taking in details and filing them away for future use.
"You must be the river rat," he said without malice. "I'm the Guardian. Though most folks just call me that because they've forgotten my real name."
"What should I call you?"
"Guardian works fine. Come on. We're burning daylight."
He turned and walked away without waiting to see if I followed. I hurried after him, my legs protesting the sudden activity.
We walked through the village square. Past the well. Past the blacksmith's forge that was already glowing with the day's first fire. Toward the training ground that sat behind the mill.
"Henrik says you need training," the Guardian said as we walked. "Says you've got potential but no discipline."
"He said that?"
"He said you've been through hell and came out swinging. Same thing."
The training ground was simple. Packed earth worn smooth by countless feet. Wooden posts driven into the ground at regular intervals. Racks of practice weapons that had seen better days but were still functional.
"Ever hold a sword before?" the Guardian asked.
"Yes."
"Ever use one properly?"
I thought about the monastery raid. About the Danish chief. About Magnus Iron-Arm and the other champions I'd killed.
"I thought I had."
"Thinking and knowing are different things. Show me."
He tossed me a practice sword. Wood shaped and weighted to feel like steel. Balanced for learning rather than killing.
I caught it instinctively. Fell into the stance my father had taught me. Weight on the balls of my feet. Shield arm ready even though I didn't have a shield.
The Guardian circled me slowly. Like a farmer examining livestock at market.
"Not terrible," he admitted grudgingly. "Someone taught you basics. But I can see gaps big enough to drive a cart through."
"What kind of gaps?"
Instead of answering, he picked up his own practice sword. Moved faster than his age suggested he should be able to.
The wooden blade cracked against my ribs before I realized he'd attacked. The impact drove the air from my lungs and sent me stumbling backward.
"That kind of gap," he said calmly.
I steadied myself. Raised my sword again. This time I was ready.
He came at me with a simple overhead strike. Telegraphed. Easy to read. I sidestepped and counterattacked toward his exposed side.
My blade met empty air. Somehow he wasn't where he should have been.
His sword found my shoulder. Not hard enough to injure but firm enough to make the point.
"You fight like a berserker," he observed. "All fury and instinct. That works against farmers and fishermen. Against real warriors, it'll get you killed."
"I've beaten real warriors before."
"Have you? Or did you just get lucky against men who underestimated you?"
The question stung because I couldn't answer it. Had my victories been skill or just the element of surprise? Had I really been that good or had my opponents been that careless?
"Again," the Guardian said.
This time I tried to be more careful. More controlled. I watched for his tells. Looked for patterns in his movement.
It didn't matter. He hit me three times before I managed to block once.
"Better," he said. "You're thinking now instead of just reacting."
We continued for what felt like hours. Attack and defense. Strike and counterstrike. He was never cruel but he was relentless. Every mistake earned immediate correction.
"Your footwork is sloppy. Watch your balance on that thrust. Don't telegraph your intentions like that."
By the time the sun cleared the horizon, I was exhausted. My practice sword felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. My arms ached. My ribs were going to be colorful tomorrow.
But something had shifted. The sword felt more natural in my hands. My movements were becoming more economical. Less wasted energy.
"That's enough for today," the Guardian announced. "Same time tomorrow."
"Wait," I called as he started to walk away. "Why are you doing this? Henrik said you're retired."
He paused. Turned back with something that might have been amusement.
"I am retired. From mercenary work. From fighting other people's wars. From killing for coin."
"Then why train me?"
"Because this is my home. These are my people. And sometimes retired soldiers have to pick up swords again."
Before I could ask what he meant, he was gone. Walking back toward his house with the steady pace of someone who'd walked countless miles and would walk countless more.
I gathered my things slowly. My body was already stiffening from the morning's work. Tomorrow would be worse.
But there was something satisfying about the ache. Like my muscles were remembering what they were built for.
"Tough morning?"
I turned to find a girl about my own age watching from the edge of the training ground. Brown hair tied back practically. Clothes that suggested work rather than leisure. But her face was kind. Curious.
"You could say that," I replied.
"You're the boy from the river. I'm Elisabeth."
The name hit me like a physical blow. She was the one who'd found me. Who'd pulled me from the water and probably saved my life.
"Thank you," I said awkwardly. "For... you know."
"For finding a half-drowned stranger by the water? Anyone would have done the same."
"Would they?"
She studied my face for a moment. Really looked at me. Like she was trying to solve a puzzle.
"You're not from around here," she said finally. "The way you talk. The way you hold yourself. You're from somewhere else entirely."
"Does it matter?"
"Not to me. But people talk. Wonder what brought you to our little village."
"And what do you think brought me here?"
"Something bad," she said without hesitation. "Something you're running from. Most people don't end up in rivers by accident."
She was sharp. Sharper than I'd expected. And she was right.
"What gave it away?"
"The nightmares," she said gently. "Henrik's house isn't far from ours. Walls aren't that thick. We could hear you calling out in your sleep."
Heat flooded my face. I'd been having nightmares? What had I said? What had I revealed?
"Don't worry," Elisabeth continued quickly. "Nobody understands what you were saying. It wasn't our language."
Norse. I'd been speaking Norse in my sleep. Calling out for parents who would never answer.
"How many languages do you know?" she asked with genuine curiosity.
"A few," I said vaguely.
"That's unusual for someone our age. Most people never learn more than one. Maybe two if they're traders."
"I had good teachers."
"Had?"
Past tense. The word hung between us like a confession.
"They're gone now," I said quietly.
Elisabeth nodded like she understood. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault."
"Doesn't mean I can't be sorry it happened."
We stood in comfortable silence for a moment. Around us, the village was waking up properly. People emerging from houses. Starting the day's work. Going about their normal lives.
"The Guardian," I said eventually. "What's his story?"
"You mean why did a professional soldier retire to a farming village in the middle of nowhere?"
"Something like that."
Elisabeth glanced around to make sure we weren't overheard. "He grew up here. Left when he was young to seek his fortune. Spent twenty years fighting in other people's wars."
"What brought him back?"
"Got tired of killing for coin, he says. Wanted to remember what he was supposed to be protecting."
"And now he just... helps around the village?"
"He does what needs doing. Mediates disputes. Helps with problems that require someone with his... particular skills."
"What kind of problems?"
"The kind that hopefully you'll never have to worry about."
But her tone suggested otherwise. Like she thought I might encounter exactly those kinds of problems sooner rather than later.
"Elisabeth," I said carefully. "Has anyone... unusual... come through the village recently? Asking questions? Looking for someone?"
Her expression grew serious. "No. But Henrik mentioned you might be worried about that. About people following you."
"Maybe. I don't know."
"Well, if anyone does come looking, they'll have to get through the Guardian first. And Henrik. And pretty much everyone else in the village."
"Why? You don't even know me."
"We know enough. You're a child who lost everything. You need help. That's all we need to know."
The simplicity of it was staggering. In a world built on suspicion and violence, these people chose trust. Chose kindness. Chose to protect strangers because it was the right thing to do.
"Thank you," I said again.
"Stop thanking me. We're neighbors now. Neighbors help each other."
Neighbors. Community. Family by choice rather than blood.
Maybe Henrik was right. Maybe I could learn to be part of something like this again.
"I should go," Elisabeth said, glancing toward the village center. "Mother will wonder where I am. But I'm glad you're feeling better."
"Me too."
She started to walk away, then turned back. "The Guardian is a good teacher. Tough but fair. If you listen to him, you'll learn things that might save your life someday."
"You sound like you speak from experience."
"Everyone in the village learns some basic defense. Just in case. But you... you might need more than basic."
She was gone before I could ask what she meant by that.
I walked back to Henrik's house slowly. My body ached but my mind was clearer than it had been in days. The training had been brutal but purposeful. The conversation with Elisabeth had been... normal. Human.
Like maybe I could remember how to be a person again instead of just a survivor.
Henrik was waiting in the kitchen when I arrived. Fresh bread on the table. Cheese and honey and milk still warm from the cow.
"How did it go?" he asked.
"He beat me senseless with a practice sword."
"Good. That means he's taking you seriously."
I sat down heavily. My muscles were already starting to stiffen.
"Elisabeth found me afterward," I said. "We talked."
"She's a good girl. Sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous when she needs to be."
"Dangerous how?"
"She sees things other people miss. Understands connections that aren't obvious. If she likes you, you're probably all right."
"And if she doesn't?"
Henrik smiled. "Then you'd better hope she never decides you're a threat to her village."
I ate breakfast while Henrik puttered around the kitchen. Humming under his breath. Moving with the easy contentment of someone who'd found his place in the world.
"Henrik," I said eventually. "The Guardian mentioned that sometimes retired soldiers have to pick up swords again. What did he mean?"
Henrik's humming stopped. His movements became more careful. Deliberate.
"Nothing you need to worry about right now."
"But something I might need to worry about later?"
A long pause. "Maybe. The world is changing. Old boundaries are shifting. Old protections are failing."
"You mean him. The tyrant."
"Among others. There are rumors. Stories from traders. Reports of villages burning. Of people disappearing."
"Then why stay here? Why not run somewhere safer?"
Henrik turned to face me directly. "Because running doesn't solve anything. It just postpones the problem. Eventually, you have to make a stand somewhere."
"And you've chosen to make it here?"
"We've chosen to make it here. All of us. Together."
The pronoun shift wasn't lost on me. Not 'I' but 'we.' Including me in their community. Their decision. Their fate.
"What if I bring trouble to your door?" I asked. "What if helping me puts everyone in danger?"
"Then we deal with it. Together. That's what communities do."
The same words the Guardian had used. Like it was a fundamental truth they all understood.
"I don't know if I'm worth that risk."
"That's not your decision to make," Henrik said gently. "We've already made it. The question is what you're going to do with the chance we're giving you."
What was I going to do? Learn to fight properly from the Guardian. Learn to be human again from Henrik and Elisabeth and the rest of the village. Try to build something good from the wreckage of my old life.
And if the tyrant came? If his empire of fear reached this peaceful place?
Then I'd try to be worthy of the people who'd chosen to save me.
Even if it killed me.
Outside, the village continued its daily rhythm. People working. Children playing. Life going on despite the darkness gathering in the world beyond.
For now, that was enough.
But I had a feeling it wouldn't be enough for long.