Morning crept slowly beneath the stone overhang. Alec woke to cold rock pressed against his back and the steady sound of the river nearby. For a moment, he didn't move. His body ached in ways he hadn't felt before, a dull soreness in his shoulders and arms that reminded him of the weight of the sword and killing the goblin yesterday. He blinked and stared at the rough stone ceiling above him, watching dust drift down in thin lines as the wind passed over the cliffs.
Owen always woke up early, every morning before the children were awake and before breakfast fires were lit, Owen would be outside with his sword. It wasn't a fancy blade, plain steel, nicked and worn but he treated it with the same care every time. Alec remembered watching him from the edge of the wooden porch, hiding half behind the woodpile so Owen wouldn't tell him to go eat or fetch water.
Owen's stance was always the same.
Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees bent just enough to stay loose. Shoulders relaxed. Sword held low at first, then he would do his swings.
The first was a diagonal cut, high to low, crossing the body. Owen would step into it, weight shifting forward, blade slicing through empty air with a quiet whoosh. He never overextended his body.
The second was a horizontal sweep, waist-high, controlled and precise. Not wide or uncontrolled. Enough to cut, nothing wasted.
The third was an upward strike, rising from low to high, angled as if to catch something trying to approach.
Three swings, over and over again.
Owen would repeat them until sweat darkened his shirt and his breathing deepened, but his movements never lost their shape. Even when he slowed, the form stayed the same.
Alec used to copy him with a stick.
He remembered sneaking off after breakfast, finding a fallen branch that felt just right in his hands. He'd stand where Owen stood, feet planted, mimicking the stance as best he could. His swings had been sloppy. Too wide. Too fast. Sometimes he'd trip over his own feet or smack the stick into the dirt.
Owen never laughed.
Once, Owen had paused mid-swing and watched Alec for a long moment. Then he'd nodded and said, "Slow down. Speed comes later. First you learn to control your movements."
Alec pushed himself upright and reached for the short sword lying beside him.
The blade caught the pale morning light filtering in from the cliff edge. It looked heavier than it had the night before.
He stood carefully, adjusting his footing on the uneven stone, and tried to remember Owen's stance. Feet apart. Knees bent. Shoulders loose. He lifted the sword, arms trembling slightly under the weight.
The first swing was out of control. Too fast. The blade dipped at the end, nearly pulling him off balance.
Alec frowned and tried again.
Slower this time.
Diagonal. High to low.
The sword cut through the air with a rough hiss. His shoulders burned, but the movement felt closer. Not yet correct. But closer.
The second swing nearly twisted the sword out of his hands.
He adjusted his grip, remembering how Owen had wrapped his fingers tight but not rigid. "The sword moves with you," Owen had said once. "Not against you. Let it flow with your arm movement."
Alec tried again. Horizontal. Controlled.
The third swing was the hardest. His arms shook as he lifted the blade upward, and the tip wobbled near the end.
He lowered the sword and breathed hard.
Again and again he swung the sword.
He lost track of time. The sun rose higher, warming the stone beneath his bare feet. Sweat ran down his face and into his eyes. His arms burned and his hands ached, but he kept going. Three swings. Over and over again trying to match the movements.
By the time he stopped, his entire body screamed at him. He leaned the sword against the rock wall and sat down heavily, chest rising and falling.
He felt… steady and focused. Some of the swings started to feel right. He wanted to keep practicing but he needed to rest.
Later, he worked on the shelter.
The overhang was good, but open. Anyone or anything could see inside from the below if they knew where to look. Owen's voice echoed in his head as Alec gathered fallen logs and cut vines from nearby brush.
"Shelter isn't just about staying dry," Owen had said. "It's about staying safe."
Alec dragged the logs into place, arranging them across the opening like a loose lattice. He tied them together with vines, fingers working the knots Owen had drilled into him over and over. He tested each one by pulling hard, retying anything that slipped even a little. It was crude and not nearly as good as what he'd seen Owen build but it would work for now.
When he was done, he covered the structure with branches and leaves, breaking up its shape. From a distance, it looked like nothing more than a shadowed crease in the rock. He nodded to himself in satisfaction.
The days began to blur.
Every morning, Alec practiced until his arms shook and his hands blistered. He practiced until he could feel the blade's weight without thinking about it. When he wasn't swinging the sword, he was thinking about it, replaying the movements in his head, adjusting angles, picturing resistance where there was none. Thinking of the feeling the sword gave him when he stabbed the men's throats and killed the goblin.
He set snares along animal trails he'd discovered and checked them twice a day. Most came back empty. Some didn't.
The first rabbit he caught after the goblin was small, its fur thin and patchy. Alec killed it quickly and cleaned it the way Owen had taught him. His hands moved in a rhythm, practiced and precise.
He made a crucial mistake after that. He built the fire right outside the shelter. The rabbit cooked slowly, fat dripping and hissing as it hit the flames. The smell carried farther than Alec realized. He sat near the fire, watching the meat turn brown, sword resting against his knee.
He didn't hear the wolves until it was too late.
A low growl rose from below the cliff edge.
Alec froze.
Another growl came from the other side of the rock. He turned just as one of the wolves leapt upward, claws scraping against the rock. Its eyes were fixed on the meat. The second wolf circled below, pacing.
Alec stumbled backward, heart racing as the first wolf lunged again. Pain rushed along Alec's side as claws tore through his shirt and skin. He screamed and fell back against the stone wall. Blood soaked into the fabric almost immediately.
The wolf landed awkwardly near the edge. Alec reacted and grabbed the makeshift door and shoved it forward with everything he had. The wolf yelped as it lost its footing and tumbled backward off the rock.
The second wolf snatched the rabbit meat from the fire and bolted into the trees, dragging it away. Alec fumbled for his sword, hands covered with his blood. The fallen wolf scrambled back up, snarling, favoring one leg slightly. It hesitated when it saw the blade, snarling as it approached.
Alec swung the sword, his movement wasn't perfect. Too much force and fear but the blade connected.
The wolf howled in pain as blood sprayed across the stone. It turned and fled, disappearing into the brush below.
Alec collapsed inside the shelter.
His breathing came in gasps. His side burned, warm and wet beneath his fingers. He dumped the vegetables and dried meat out of the burlap sack onto the rock and pressed the sack against the wound, panic quickly rising.
Blood soaked through almost immediately.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"
His mind raced. Owen's lessons and words jumbled in his head. Pressure. Clean the wound. Don't let it fester.
Then he remembered a hunter that had been passing through town, trading pelts. He'd talked with Owen about goblins and a cut he'd gotten from one of their crude blades.
"Burn it," the hunter had said. "Ugly, but it stops the bleeding."
Alec stared at the fire outside the shelter.
His hands shook as he crawled toward it and grabbed a smoldering piece of wood from the edge. The heat seared his palm, but he didn't let go.
He pressed it to his side.
Pain like nothing he'd ever felt tore through him. He bit down hard, clenching his teeth as he tried to keep from screaming as he mashed the burning wood against the cuts on his side again and again. The smell of burning flesh filled the shelter. His vision blurred and his ears rang.
His movements became frantic and messy.
Then his thoughts stopped altogether as Alec collapsed forward, landing on the hard stone surface. The smoldering log rolled from his hand and dropped off the edge of the rock.