Kyran's first memory of steel was the taste of dawn on his tongue: a sharp, metallic tang that lingered even after his teeth had closed around them. At nine years old, he rose before the sun, feet padding across rough-hewn planks to stand in the frozen courtyard behind his family's cottage. Rurik, his father, already held the practice blade warm from his side, breath steaming in the half-light.
"Grip here," Rurik said, guiding Kyran's small hand to the leather-wrapped hilt of a wooden training sword. The blade was nearly as tall as Kyran himself—a child's dream of might, yet heavy enough to teach respect. Kyran squeezed, feeling the weight settle like an unspoken promise in his bones.
Outside the courtyard fence, torches guttered against the last stars. Mara, his mother, lingered at the doorway, eyes drawn to Kyran's pale face. "Mind your shoulder," she whispered, "or you'll throw yourself off balance."
Kyran nodded, silent under the hush of winter. He swung the wooden blade in a practiced arc—three months of lessons had taught him the basics. Each cut sliced a breath of air colder than his youngest memories. Rurik watched, muscles rippling beneath a rough tunic, and offered only the occasional nod.
"Lift your chin," Rurik murmured, "so you can see beyond the blade." Kyran corrected himself, chest rising with effort. The courtyard gate creaked, and Kyran glanced up automatically, as though the sound had called him home. But it was only the dawn wind rattling latched shutters.
When Rurik called a halt, Kyran let the wooden blade rest against the frozen earth. His knuckles were white, and a fine sweat beaded along his hairline, despite the cold. On his father's stern, lined face, pride flickered for a moment.
"You learn faster than most," Rurik said. "Your grandfather—I mean, Tomas—used to move like that with steel when he was your age." Rurik glanced beyond the frosted fence, as if expecting to see Tomas himself, but found only the silent pines and a horizon greening with sunrise.
Kyran felt a prick of confusion at the name. Tomas was a man he had never met, but whose memory filled Almar's stories. Still, the name meant something—an echo in his blood. Kyran met his father's gaze. "I—I try."
Rurik shook his head. "You do more than try." Then he swept aside the training sword, tucked it beneath his arm, and led Kyran inside.
At midday, the village square was a swirl of children's laughter and clattering carts. Kyran trudged between clusters of huts with a basket of eggs slung at his hip, trying to move unnoticed. But word travels quickly: five of the older boys paused their game of stickball and pointed.
"There goes Kyran, weird eyes and all," hissed Lerek, a boy in patched wool who carried the arrogance of a champion in every step.
"Did you see him this morning? Swinging that wooden monstrosity like he's some master," another jeered—brandishing a crude stick in mock salute.
Kyran's wrist stiffened around the basket handle. He kept his gaze on the ground; each step felt heavier. His breath came in little clouds, fluttering like startled birds. Lerek's laughter followed him as he walked briskly toward the chapel's low stone walls, where Almar sometimes waited at dusk to scrape frost from the niches.
It was Almar who first recognized Kyran's stiff stance, the edge of promise in his posture. The old man's eyes—pale and bright as chipped sapphire—had once guided Tomas through the agony of discovering the swordmaster's final rest. Now, they lit on Kyran with something between wonder and concern.
"Kyran." Almar's voice was a whisper, carried on the wind and almost lost among the clatter of farm carts. He beckoned with a crooked finger, and Kyran hesitated before crossing the gap.
"I saw them," Almar said quietly, indicating the group of boys who had turned to chase a stray chicken instead of watching. "Their words are like icy wind. You feel it, don't you?"
Kyran only nodded. He did not want to speak of Lerek or his friends. They made him feel different—an outsider in the eyes of children who had never known his burdens.
Almar pointed to the chapel's narrow door, half-hidden by creeping ivy. "Come, I want to show you something."
Inside, the flicker of a single lantern revealed a low dais. Upon it lay the broken swordsmith's relic—a blade chipped halfway to the hilt, its steel mottled with rust and time. Kyran felt his heart thud as he drew closer. Though he had seen the sword on festival days, today it felt alive: a dull thrum like a heartbeat humming below the tarnished surface.
"Remember this," Almar said, voice hushed. "This belonged to a master who trained until his bones failed. He stood here for more than fifty years, swinging steel before dawn. You feel that in the blade, do you not?"
Kyran laid a trembling fingertip on the hilt. It was colder than the wind, yet beneath that chill, he sensed something—like embers beneath ash. The moment he touched the metal, a shiver ran through his entire body, and his fingertips tingled as though the sword had acknowledged him.
"How heavy is it?" he asked, breath hitching.
Almar stepped back. "Try."
Kyran lifted with both hands, feet planted wide. The sword refused to budge easily; for a child, it was nearly impossible. Still, he coaxed it upward, the wrist burning as the weight pulled at every muscle. A flicker of warmth blossomed where his palms met wrapped steel—so faint that only Kyran noticed it. He wavered, then let the sword drop back into its velvet-lined cradle.
"It will not be easy," Almar said. "But you carry a spark in your blood. I see it in your eyes."
Kyran forced a steady breath, blinking away a single tear of frustration. "It's too much. I am not him."
"Perhaps not wholly," Almar murmured. "But part of him lives on in your hands. You must learn to temper it—like steel against the anvil. Your father will teach you balance and stance. I will teach you patience. In time, you may grasp more than you know."
That night, Kyran lay uneasy in his bed of straw. The faint scent of pine and melted wax drifted from a single lantern outside his window. He closed his eyes and folded himself into a blanket, but sleep came slowly.
In his dreams, he was back in the courtyard, blade in hand, drawing arcs of silver light across a world of falling snow. The chill cut through his tunic, and each time he swung, the air rang with a single note—like a bell tolling on a winter morning. Then, the dream shifted. He saw himself as a flicker of light drifting up from a corpse, leaving behind a world of frost. He felt hands on his young shoulders, guiding him to the hilt of a blade that whispered in his mind.
Kyran jerked awake, heart pounding. A strange residue clung to his palm—like the taste of dawn itself—though he'd never touched steel in the dark. He sat upright, pressing his palm against his chest, feeling the tremor beneath his ribs.
"Mara?" he whispered. She appeared at the door, silhouetted in lamp-glow.
"I heard you calling," she said gently. "Bad dream?"
He nodded, unable to speak. Mara crossed to his bedside and stroked his forehead. "A memory," she murmured, as if recalling something she had once heard in hushed village lore. "You are meant for more, my son, but do not fear what you feel. It is the first step."
By the next dawn, Kyran rose before his father and slipped into the courtyard. Rurik was waiting, blade in hand, eyes grave but patient. "Today, we practice footwork," he announced, holding the training sword at Kyran's shoulder.
They moved together through crisp morning air—one step forward, then a pivot, heel digging into frozen earth. Kyran's feet followed instinctive rhythms, as though guided by some deeper pulse. At one point, he stumbled: his toe caught on a stone, and his body pitched forward as if to strike.
Rurik's sword knocked Kyran's from his hand, clattering against the cobblestones. Kyran closed his eyes, expecting to hear scoldings, but his father only caught the wooden sword, then rested a hand on Kyran's trembling shoulder.
"Not to pine for the blade's pulse," Rurik said softly. "Your instincts are waking, but they must learn to follow my steadiness." He demonstrated again: a low stance, knees bent, eyes fixed not on the wooden sword's tip but on the space just beyond Kyran's vision. "Find the balance between what you feel and what you know."
Kyran obeyed, throat tight. As he mirrored his father's stance, he sensed in the blade a faint acknowledgment—an echo of the master's years of honing. In that moment, Kyran felt as though he stood not on cold tiles, but on a field blanketed in snow, the wind singing through the pines as it had for a lifetime.
Before he could settle fully, Rurik signaled a halt. "Enough for this morning. You are learning."
Kyran lowered the wooden blade, breath steadying, but inside him the pulse remained—a promise of something to come.
That afternoon, Kyran returned to the chapel alone. The afternoon sun slanted through the open door, illuminating the sword's pitted steel. Almar stood nearby, watching as Kyran approached with reverent steps.
"Do you remember last night's dream?" Almar asked in a whisper.
Kyran swallowed. "I saw him—our master. His sword cut the air forever, and then he rose like a spark of light."
Almar's pale eyes glowed with a tenderness Kyran had not seen before. "He never truly left. His will is bound to the blade and, somehow, to you."
Kyran reached for the hilt again. This time, though it remained heavy, he felt the warming pulse stronger than before-an ember fanned by a child's breath.
He staggered, caught half by shock, half by awe. Almar moved to steady him, pressing a gentle hand between Kyran's shoulder blades. "You carry both paths: the way of a guard's discipline and the path of a soul reborn. In time, you must choose how to walk between them."
Kyran nodded, uncertain whether he understood the weight of those words. Beyond the chapel doors, a group of children laughed, passing by without noticing him. They did not know that a piece of the past lived again within his veins-nor would they until Kyran's blade sang once more at sunrise.
In the hush of stone and cold steel, Kyran made a silent vow: to learn from both father and Almar, to master the blade that had chosen him twice. And in that vow, he felt the faintest stirring of purpose-like embers glowing before the forge's flame ignites.