After Lyra finished showing and explaining the medicinal herbs, she and Arin left the clearing as cautiously as they had entered it. She had considered introducing him to the more dangerous plants— poisonous herbs and venomous vines that required a deeper trek into the forest— but decided against it for now. It's not yet time, she thought. Perhaps a book would suffice, for now.
Their return through the woods was quiet but vigilant. The forest, though beautiful, held secrets in every rustling leaf and unseen shadow, and Lyra did not let her guard down.
By the time they neared the village, the sun had dipped low in the west, and the tall trees of the Greenfold cast elongated shadows over the farmlands. Along the edges of the agricultural fields, tall wooden poles stood like sentinels, each crowned with a glowing stick. These weren't ordinary torches— enchanted rods that produced a flame-like glow without burning the wood, lighting up the surroundings with a soft amber hue.
People were beginning to gather for the night shifts. Some, hired by the wealthier farmers, would guard the fields against stray beasts or magical creatures that might wander too close. The crops were their livelihood, and the nights could be cruel. Others— those who could not afford such protection— simply relied on hope and nightly prayers that their day's labor wouldn't be ruined by morning.
Arin walked silently beside his mother, his gaze lingering on the glowing lights, on the quiet determination of the farmers, and on the flickers of movement in the twilight. But his mind wasn't fully here— it was still back in the woods, swirling with everything he had learned.
When they finally reached home, dusk had deepened into true night. Before stepping inside, Arin dutifully washed his hands, feet, and face at the stone basin outside— a habit drilled into him by Lyra since childhood. She always insisted: "You never carry the dust of the outside into your home."
Inside, Arin didn't bother with anything else. Exhausted, he stumbled into his room and fell face-first onto his bed.
Meanwhile, Lyra carefully stored away the herbs and ingredients they had collected. After checking on her little herb garden in the backyard— snipping a few leaves here, adjusting a few stems there— she returned to the kitchen and began preparing dinner.
The smell of dinner woke Arin before Lyra had to call him.
He stirred, stretched, and smiled as the aroma reached his nose. Something warm and familiar… something delicious.
He padded into the kitchen where Lyra had already set the table. She turned and smiled at him, the lines of fatigue on her face softened by warmth.
"You've been a good boy today," she said, setting down the last dish. "You learned a lot. So I made your favorite dinner."
Tonight, it was vegetable soup and a curry made from an assortment of fresh vegetables. Unlike most children his age, Arin had never complained about vegetables. In fact, he rather liked them. The soup smelled rich and earthy, steam rising from it in gentle wisps. He took a spoonful, blew on it to cool, and sipped slowly, savoring the layered taste of root vegetables and leafy greens. He let out a quiet sigh—a sound of satisfaction.
Next, he reached for the curry. Some vegetables were soft, melting into his tongue. Others retained a crispness that contrasted wonderfully with the warm spices. He loved his mother's cooking. Lyra, a master of herbs and mixtures, had a knack for balancing flavors with the same care she gave to balancing potions.
He also had a strange quirk. Even though it all ended up in his stomach anyway, Arin didn't like mixing the dishes on his plate. He always used separate spoons for everything. Tonight was no exception— one for the soup, one for the curry. Lyra just chuckled and shook her head gently, as she always did when watching him eat.
After they had finished, Lyra stood and gathered the dishes.
"Sleep well, Arin," she said as she turned. "Your weapon training starts tomorrow. No slacking off— got it?"
"Yes, Mother," Arin replied without protest.
He made his way back to bed, full and content. But sleep didn't come easily— not right away. He had already napped before dinner, and his mind was far too busy. Images flitted through his thoughts: the curling edges of Mistgrove Ivy, the soft glow of the enchanted lamp-posts, the tired eyes of the night guards, the strength in his mother's voice. So many things to learn. So many things to remember.
Eventually, the swirl of thoughts gave way to stillness. And in that stillness, sleep quietly took him.
---
Arin woke early, long before the sun reached the horizon. He went through his morning routine with quiet focus— washing up, getting dressed, and tidying his small room. After a quick breakfast of bread and rootfruit jam, he strapped on his satchel and made his way to the door.
"Bye, Mother!" he called out, stepping outside.
Lyra's voice followed him, gentle but firm. "Do well, Arin. And don't run."
"I won't," he replied, though he was already halfway down the path at a brisk walk.
The sky was soft with morning mist, the streets still waking. On his way to school, Arin caught up with a few of his classmates. Some bore groggy expressions and muttered yawns, clearly unenthusiastic about today's new training. A new curriculum always meant more work, and not everyone was eager to sweat under the sun.
Others, however, practically buzzed with anticipation. They can't wait to touch their little weapons again.
Among the familiar faces, Arin spotted Kael, Daren, Silen, and Mirelle gathered near the school gates.
Kael wore that unmistakable grin of his— mischievous, full of barely-contained energy. Arin narrowed his eyes slightly.
"Hi Kael," he said, approaching. "What's with that look? Are you up to something again?"
Kael put a hand over his chest in mock innocence. "Me? Never. I'm a model student. I'm just really excited to finally train with a sword. I can already feel it calling to me!"
Arin rolled his eyes inwardly. He's definitely up to something, he thought.
Mirelle arrived a few moments later, her ever-present notebook tucked under one arm and an ink pen secured in her sash. Calm and composed as always, she gave Arin a small nod.
"Good morning, Arin."
"Morning, Mirelle," he responded.
Then came Silen, quiet as his name suggested. He gave a shy, awkward smile to the group but said nothing, simply falling in step beside them. He never talked much, but no one minded. That was just Silen.
Daren trailed behind, attempting to hide a noticeable scorch mark on his forearm. His cloak sleeve was tugged awkwardly over the spot, but it wasn't enough to escape Kael's sharp eyes.
"Oi, look at Daren!" Kael called out, darting toward him. "You burned yourself again, didn't you? What did you do this time— try to light a mana fire with your face?"
Daren flushed and turned away, muttering under his breath. "It was just a small spark. Nothing major."
The rest of the group laughed— not unkindly, but with the familiar fondness of friends who had seen this play out many times before. Daren and his "experiments" were a running theme in their class. If there was a strange magical theory or reckless energy idea to try, Daren would eventually find it. Usually the hard way.
Despite their teasing, there was a quiet excitement buzzing through them all. The new curriculum meant more than just hard work— it meant progress. It meant weapons. It meant moving forward.
And for Arin, it meant the next step in becoming stronger— not just for himself, but for reasons he hadn't yet dared to say aloud.
---
By the time Arin and his friends arrived, the school courtyard was already alive with movement. Students were filing in from all directions, energy buzzing through the air— some jittery with nerves, others beaming with anticipation.
Standing at the center of the wide stone courtyard was Elder Marn, arms behind his back, his posture as straight and unyielding as a spear. His long grey hair was tied neatly at the back, and the ceremonial crimson sash across his shoulder marked him as one of the core instructors. Despite his calm expression, there was a commanding weight to his presence. The whispers and chatter died down the moment he cleared his throat.
"Today," he began, his voice carrying across the courtyard, "marks the beginning of a new phase in your training."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"You'll now be introduced to the foundations of weaponry— your chosen path of steel, wood, or bowstring. From this day forward, you will not only rely on mana and spells, but also your arms and instinct."
A murmur of excitement rippled through the students.
"You will begin with the basics," Elder Marn continued, pacing slowly. "Sword wielders will practice simple swings. Spear users, basic thrusts. Staff users, controlled strikes. Bow users, your stance and how to properly draw your strings. It may seem simple, but the foundations are everything."
He stopped and turned to face them all squarely.
"Your seniors, who have already achieved basic weapon mastery, will guide you through the early forms. Every day, you will learn something new— a fresh stance, a refined movement, or a new technique. You will learn not just how to use a weapon, but how to take advantage of it, how to make it an extension of your body."
Then, with a small smile tugging at the corners of his otherwise serious expression, he added, "And don't think your magic lessons are going away. Every alternate day, you will continue your magic lessons. Because when the time comes, you will need to learn how to use both weapon and magic in unison. That is the mark of a complete warrior."
He let the silence that followed linger— a silence filled with anticipation, nerves, and hunger for growth.
Then he clapped once, sharp and firm.
"Now, go. Collect your practice weapons from the armory room. Choose carefully. Your seniors will arrive shortly to begin your guidance. And try not to spend too much time admiring your weapons— we have work to do."
Students scattered into motion, laughter and footsteps echoing across the stone courtyard.
Arin's heart beat a little faster as he made his way toward the shed. Today marked the start of something new— not just practice, not just drills. It was a step toward strength. Toward becoming someone his mother could be proud of. Someone who could protect, understand, and one day… stand tall.