The sword is simple. It lies across the flat stone like it's always belonged there.
The grain of the wood runs straight through the length, dark-stained and balanced. It doesn't gleam, doesn't shine. It just waits.
I stare at it for a long time. Varric stands a few paces away, arms crossed. "It's not sharp," he says. "Not yet. You'll only get steel when you've proven your body won't waste it."
I nod slowly, stepping forward. My hand reaches out, hovering just above the hilt. There's no ceremony. No dramatic music or magic flaring in the background.
But something about the moment still feels... heavy. Final.
The last time I held a weapon, it was a jagged rusted dagger. That day in the forest. The goblin's face still flickers behind my eyes—its teeth bared, eyes wide with animal panic as I stabbed and screamed and kicked, fighting not with skill but with desperation.
Back then, I wasn't fighting to win. I was fighting to not die.
This time…
This time feels different.
I curl my fingers around the grip and lift the wooden sword in both hands. It's heavier than I expected. Not clunky, but real. It has weight. Purpose.
Varric walks forward without another word, then positions himself opposite me on the flattened training field. "First: stances," he says. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Left foot forward. Balance low. Sword up, but not stiff."
I mimic what I see. Sort of.
He steps over and nudges my shoulder. "Too tense. You'll gas out before you even swing."
I try to relax, but every muscle feels like it's preparing for war again.
"Don't anticipate the strike," he says, circling. "Be still. Then move. Not the other way around."
We begin with the basics. Form drills.
Step. Swing. Reset. Again. Step. Swing. Reset. And again.
He watches everything. The way my wrists turn, the angle of my shoulders, the way my feet shift slightly out of place. "Too fast," he says. "You're rushing. Your body still thinks you're cornered."
He's not wrong. Each swing feels like it's being pulled from somewhere deep—like I'm still in the forest, with blood in my mouth and dirt under my nails.
After a few dozen swings, he stops me with a flat hand raised. "Don't swing like you're afraid," he says. "Swing like you know you'll strike."
I grip the sword tighter. "What's the difference?"
"Everything," he answers. Then he steps beside me and moves his own arm through the air, slow, smooth, like he's breathing through the motion. "A blade is a breath," he murmurs. "Not a scream."
I don't fully understand. But I try to mimic the movement anyway.
Lina and Rennan come by later in the day, standing at the edge of the trees with quiet expressions. Lina has a basket of wrapped bread under her arm. She waves gently, but her eyes flick to the sword in my hands. She's proud. But also uneasy. I can tell.
Rennan gives me a little nod when I meet his eyes. The kind that says You're really doing it now.
They don't interrupt. Just stay a while, then leave with quiet smiles.
Later, Varric ties up a training dummy made of tightly bound straw. I get to practice strikes with targets now.
My first swings are wild. Off-balance. Too high, too much wrist.
"Again," he says. The next one lands.
And then another.
And again.
It's not perfect. Far from it.
But every swing feels… less like screaming. More like breathing.
. . .
As the sun dips low, Varric finally speaks: "That's enough for today." I wipe sweat from my brow and follow him down the trail back toward the village, sword slung over my shoulder.
It's odd. He never walks me home. I squint up at him. "Why are you escorting me?"
"You'll see," he mutters. Varric walks ahead in silence, and I follow, unsure of what's going on. His boots crunch the dirt with steady rhythm, like always. Calm. Controlled. That never changes.
But the way his shoulders are set feels… looser somehow. Like he's holding something back.
Which is weird, because Varric doesn't really do secrets. He either says it or doesn't care.
The closer we get to the house, the more I notice something's… off.
The windows are glowing, every single one. That's never happened before.
There's light coming from inside. More than just a lamp or hearth.
There's… movement too. Shadows passing in front of the curtains.
The sound of voices—muffled and close. Laughter? I blink and slow down. "Wait…"
Varric stops a few steps ahead. Doesn't look back. "Go on," he says. "Open it."
I narrow my eyes. What the hell is this? I reach for the door, slowly, still gripping the sword under one arm. Then I push.
It swings inward. And everything freezes.
Because suddenly, everyone is there. The entire village. The couple. The blacksmith. The farmer with the crooked hat. That old lady who knits in a rocking chair all day. Even the kids. Nella's waving something handmade in her arms, grinning like she's about to burst.
Decorations hang across the beams. The table is stacked with food. Baskets of bread. Roasted vegetables. A pot of stew steaming at the center. There's even a cake.
I haven't even processed it all before everyone yells:
"Welcome home, Albus!" The noise stuns me. My sword nearly slips from my fingers.
I look at Lina and Rennan. They're smiling. But not the polite kind. The full, eyes-crinkling kind. Like they've been waiting for this all day. "What… what is this?" I stammer.
Rennan steps forward and ruffles my hair. "It's been just over a year since you joined us," he says. "We realized you never told us your birthday… so we figured, why not celebrate the day you arrived?"
I blink at him. Then at Lina, who's already stepping in to pull me toward the center. "We didn't know if you'd want a party," she says gently, "but the whole village wanted to show you you're part of this place."
My chest tightens. Not in a bad way. But like something fragile just cracked and let in a beam of light.
"I…" I stare at the cake, at the people smiling at me like I actually belong here. "I've never had one."
"A birthday?" Lina asks.
I nod slowly. "I never really thought about the day I was born. Not in my old life… and not when I came here, either." I press the back of my wrist to my eyes, but it's too late. Tears already fall down. Soft. Slow. Unstoppable.
My shoulders tremble. Lina wraps her arms around me first. Rennan joins a second later. And for the second time in as many nights, I'm surrounded by warmth I never thought I'd feel again.
They guide me to the table. "Make a wish," Lina says, voice light and teasing, "and blow the candle."
I stare at the tiny flicker of fire. My mind goes blank. There are so many things I could wish for. Strength. Power. Revenge. But instead, the only thought that comes is something quiet. Let these peaceful days last… just a little longer.
I take a breath. And blow. The candle smoke curls upward like a soft ribbon, fading into the ceiling beams above. Everyone claps. It's loud, cheerful. The sound surrounds me, and for a moment, I don't know what to do with it. I just… stand there, blinking, warm and numb in the best way.
Then Nella—the little girl who always tries to talk to me—runs up with something clutched in her hands. "Here!" she says, bouncing on her toes. "I made this!"
It's a doll. A straw doll, tied neatly with thin red string, wearing a lopsided cloth scarf and crooked eyes stitched from black thread. The stitching isn't perfect, and one arm is slightly longer than the other. It's the most wonderful thing I've ever seen.
"I-it's you," she says proudly, pointing to the messy strands of straw on the head. "That's the hair." I hold it with both hands, staring at it like it might dissolve if I blink too hard.
"I… thank you," I manage to say. She grins so big it almost splits her face, then runs off, giggling.
Next comes a quiet older man I've seen tending the fields. He hands me a rough-woven bracelet made of bark thread and soft blue stones. "It's from the river," he mutters, scratching his beard. "Protection charm. Old tradition. Might be nonsense. Still… thought you should have one."
I bow my head. "I'll wear it."
A few more villagers come—each with something small but carefully made. A pouch of dried herbs "for training bruises." A pair of warm socks someone knitted from old yarn. A fishing rod—well-worn but sturdy—passed down from one of the elders who "doesn't use it anymore, and you look like you've got good reflexes." They just… keep coming.
With every gift, my hands shake a little more. My throat tightens again. I try not to cry for a second time in the same night, but it's hard.
None of this makes sense. I didn't earn this. I'm not special. I'm just a boy who happened to wash up on the edge of their lives. Why are they doing this? Why are they being so kind?
Finally, Lina and Rennan step forward.
Rennan's holding a long, cloth-wrapped bundle with careful hands. He gives me a look that's somehow both proud and serious. "This one's from us," he says. He offers it to me, and I take it, unwrapping it slowly, carefully—
And then I see it. A dagger. But not like the one I used to carry.
This one is beautiful. Sleek. Balanced. The blade is dark steel, not shiny, but honed. The handle is wrapped in blue leather with faint, careful etchings along the crossguard—etched flowers. The sheath is simple, but elegant, with a loop that could be worn on a belt.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. "A dagger?" I manage after a second. "Why a dagger?"
Rennan shrugs with a soft smile. "You already know how to use one. No sense giving you something flashy when you'll need something practical."
Lina steps forward, her voice quieter but steadier. "One day, Albus… you'll leave this village." I flinch at that. At the idea. But she continues.
"And when you do, we won't be able to go with you. We don't know what the world holds for you, but we do know this—someday, you'll need to defend yourself. And we won't be there to protect you."
She places a hand gently on the hilt of the dagger as I hold it. "So this… this is our way of saying: even when we're not by your side, we're with you."
Rennan nods. "It's not just a weapon. It's a promise." I stare at the blade. Then at both of them. My hands shake again, but I don't drop it. "…I don't know what to say," I whisper.
"You don't have to," Lina says, pulling me in. And this time—I don't resist. I hug them both, arms wrapped around their waists, face buried in the soft fabric of their clothes. They don't let go for a long time.
Varric doesn't say anything for most of the night. He stands near the corner of the room, arms crossed, face unreadable as ever. A wooden cup rests in his hand, barely sipped. He watches the room like he's keeping guard, like he's waiting for something to go wrong.
But when I glance at him again, I catch it. The smallest lift at the edge of his mouth. I don't say anything. He wouldn't want me to. But I see it. And maybe… that's enough.
After a while, people start saying their goodbyes. The food's been eaten, the candles are low, and the sky outside has turned to ink, dotted with pale stars. One by one, the villagers pat my shoulder, ruffle my hair, or whisper quiet "Happy birthday" as they step out into the cool night air.
Soon it's just the four of us left. Me. Rennan. Lina. Varric.
I sit on the floor beside the hearth, holding the sheathed dagger in my lap. It's heavier than I expected. Not in a bad way. Just… real. Like it means something. Like I need to live up to it.
Varric finally walks over and stops beside me. I look up. "You've done well," he says, voice as gruff as ever.
I blink. Was that… a compliment?
Before I can ask, he adds: "No training tomorrow."
I blink again. "What?"
He raises an eyebrow. "You heard me. It's your birthday. Even soldiers get rest days. Consider that my gift."
My mouth opens. Closes. Then I laugh. It slips out without warning. A small thing. Quick. But real.
I look down at the dagger again and nod. "Thank you."
Varric grunts once and turns to leave without another word. Typical.
Rennan stretches and yawns. "Alright, time for bed before you pass out standing."
"I'm not that tired," I lie as my mouth widens with a yawn.
"You've been up since before sunrise and trained all day. That plus food coma? You're done for."
I roll my eyes, but I smile too. He's not wrong. Lina kisses the top of my head and brushes the hair from my eyes. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."
I want to say something clever, something meaningful. But my throat catches again. So I just nod and whisper back, "Thanks."
Later, I lie alone on my bed, the dagger now safely set on my bedside table. The fire's gone to embers. The room's quiet.
Outside, the swing sways slightly in the wind. No one's on it. But it doesn't look lonely anymore. Just peaceful.
I press my hand lightly to my chest. My soul hums there—steady, warm. It flickers, but not from fear. It pulses with something else. Something I think I finally understand. Contentment.
Not the kind I knew in passing with Elaria. That was safety, but it was always on the run. Always fleeting.
This is different. This is still. Settled. I whisper to myself: "For the first time in this life… I'm happy."
And for a long while, I just lie there, staring at the wooden ceiling. Listening to the faint echoes of laughter that still linger in the walls. Until my eyes slowly drifts to sleep.