Dawn broke over the village of Mish, painting the sky in delicate strokes of pink and gold. Zoh was awake before the first cockerel's crow, his body thrumming with excitement. He splashed cold water on his face from the basin, dressed in his sturdiest clothes, and wolfed down the breakfast his mother had prepared.
Matt watched his son with amusement, remembering his own youthful eagerness when he had begun training under the royal sword master decades ago. The memories were bittersweet, tainted by the tragedy that had led him to leave the royal guard and settle in this remote village. But those were thoughts for another time. Today was about Zoh, about nurturing the spark within him.
"Are you ready, Son?" Matt asked, rising from the table.
Zoh nodded vigorously, nearly knocking over his cup of goat's milk in his haste. "Yes, Dad!"
The pair walked to the yard, where Matt had set up a simple training area. A wooden dummy stood in one corner, its surface scarred from countless practice strikes. A rack of wooden swords of various sizes leaned against a nearby tree. Matt selected the smallest one, testing its weight and balance before handing it to Zoh.
The boy's hands trembled slightly as he grasped the hilt. The sword was heavier than he had anticipated, but he refused to show any sign of weakness. He adjusted his grip, mimicking the way he had seen his father hold his weapon countless times.
"Today," Matt began, his voice taking on a formal tone that Zoh had rarely heard before, "you will learn the basic stance and strikes. Swordplay is not just about strength; it's about balance, control, and understanding your opponent." He demonstrated the stance, his feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, his body turned at an angle to present a smaller target.
Zoh mirrored his father's position, his young face scrunched in concentration. His muscles already protested at the unfamiliar posture, but he held firm.
"Good," Matt nodded approvingly. "Now, the basic strikes. Swing the wooden sword downward and then upward!"
Zoh complied, his arms straining as he lifted the wooden sword above his head and brought it down in a controlled arc, then reversed the motion in an upward swing. The movement was awkward, lacking the fluid grace of his father's demonstrations, but it was a start.
"Again," Matt instructed, his voice firm but encouraging.
Zoh repeated the motion, then again, and again. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, trickling down his temples. His arms ached, and his breath came in ragged gasps, but he refused to complain. Each swing brought him one step closer to his dream.
The morning sun climbed higher, its rays intensifying. Zoh's strikes grew increasingly labored, his movements sluggish. Just when he thought his arms would fall off, his father's voice broke through his concentrated haze.
"Well done, son!" Matt exclaimed, genuine pride in his tone. "You managed 35 strikes."
Zoh collapsed onto the grass, his chest heaving, arms feeling like lead weights. Despite the exhaustion, a sense of accomplishment washed over him. He had done it; he had completed his first training session.
"Heh! It's quite easy," he panted, though the trembling in his limbs betrayed his bravado.
Matt chuckled, sitting down beside his son on the cool grass. He reached for a water skin, offering it to Zoh, who gulped down the refreshing liquid greedily.
"Son," Matt began, his voice gentle, "you see how exhausting it can be to wield a sword like this. You tire quickly."
Zoh wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, determination setting his jaw. "Fear not, Dad. I can endure it because my knight's spirit is unwavering! I want to keep going!"
Matt studied his son's face, seeing beyond the childish features to the core of resilience within. A smile spread across his weathered face as he affectionately tousled Zoh's sweat-dampened hair.
"Very well," he conceded, rising to his feet. "Your break is over. Let's continue. Onward!"
And so the training continued, day after day, week after week. Zoh's muscles grew accustomed to the strain, his strikes becoming more precise, his stance more balanced. The wooden sword, once awkwardly heavy in his hands, now felt like an extension of his arm.
Four months passed in a blur of training, chores, and occasional childish play with the village children. Zoh's progress was remarkable, fueled by his unwavering determination and his father's expert guidance.
Throughout these months, Zoh's daily routine had become a symphony of discipline and growth. Each morning, he would rise with the sun, his young body gradually adapting to the rigors of training. The initial soreness that had plagued his muscles had given way to a steady strength, his small frame becoming more defined with each passing week.
Matt, ever the attentive teacher, adjusted his lessons to match his son's development. He introduced new techniques gradually, ensuring Zoh mastered each one before moving on to more complex maneuvers. Basic strikes evolved into combinations, static stances transitioned into fluid movements, and simple blocks transformed into strategic defenses.
"Remember, Son," Matt would often say during their sessions, his voice carrying the weight of years of experience, "a sword is merely an extension of yourself. It is not the weapon that makes the warrior, but the heart and mind behind it."
Zoh absorbed these lessons like parched soil soaking up rain. Each nugget of wisdom was treasured, each correction viewed as an opportunity for improvement rather than criticism. His determination never wavered, even on days when the training was particularly grueling.
There were moments of frustration, of course. Days when a particular technique seemed impossible to master, when his body refused to cooperate with his will. During one such session, after failing repeatedly to execute a complex parrying maneuver, Zoh had thrown his wooden sword to the ground in a rare display of temper.
"I can't do it!" he had cried, his young face flushed with exertion and disappointment. "It's too difficult!"
Matt had regarded him calmly, neither angry nor disappointed. He had simply picked up the discarded sword, handed it back to his son, and said with quiet confidence, "You can't do it yet. The word 'yet' makes all the difference, Zoh. Try again."
That simple word—'yet'—had resonated deeply within Zoh. It acknowledged his current limitations while simultaneously affirming his potential for growth. With renewed determination, he had gripped the sword once more, focusing intently on his father's instructions. By the end of that session, he had not perfected the maneuver, but he had made significant progress, and the sense of accomplishment had been sweeter for the struggle that preceded it.
Nina, too, played a vital role in Zoh's journey. While Matt trained his body and mind in the art of swordplay, Nina nurtured his spirit and character. She would tend to his blisters and bruises with gentle hands, listen to his excited recounting of each day's training with genuine interest, and instill in him the importance of humility and compassion alongside strength and skill.
"A true knight," she would tell him as she applied soothing salve to his calloused hands, "protects those who cannot protect themselves. He uses his strength to serve, not to dominate."
Zoh would nod solemnly, absorbing her words just as earnestly as he did his father's teachings about sword techniques. In his young mind, the path to knighthood involved not just mastering the sword, but also embodying the virtues his parents exemplified.
The village children, initially skeptical of Zoh's ambitions, gradually came to regard him with a mixture of awe and respect. They would often gather at a safe distance to watch his training sessions, whispering among themselves as Zoh performed increasingly impressive feats under his father's guidance.
Sometimes, after his formal training concluded for the day, Zoh would join the other children in their games. Even in play, the discipline and focus he had developed through his training was evident. He moved with a growing grace that set him apart, his reflexes quicker, his balance more sure. Yet, he never boasted or lorded his skills over his peers, remembering his mother's emphasis on humility.
One evening, as the family sat around their table enjoying a simple but nourishing meal, Matt had looked at his son with an evaluative gaze that made Zoh sit up straighter, wondering what was coming.
"Your progress has been remarkable, Son," Matt had said, a note of pride in his voice that made Zoh's heart swell. "I believe you are ready for the next step in your training."
"What's that, Dad?" Zoh had asked eagerly, his food momentarily forgotten.
Matt had exchanged a meaningful glance with Nina before answering. "Sparring," he'd said simply. "It's time you learned to apply your skills against an opponent who moves and thinks and reacts."
Excitement had surged through Zoh at the prospect, tempered with a healthy dose of apprehension. Sparring with his father—the idea was both thrilling and terrifying.
"When do we start?" he'd asked, trying to keep his voice steady despite the butterflies in his stomach.
"Tomorrow," Matt had replied, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Rest well tonight. You'll need your strength."
That night, as he lay on his sleeping mat staring up at the ceiling, Zoh had run through all he had learned in the past four months. The stances, the strikes, the blocks, the footwork—all of it swirling in his mind like leaves caught in a whirlwind. Could he truly hold his own against his father, even in a controlled sparring match? The doubt had crept in, whispering of failure and disappointment.
But then he had remembered his father's words: "You can't do it yet." The power of 'yet' had worked its magic once more, transforming doubt into determination. Maybe he wouldn't win—in fact, he probably wouldn't—but he would give it his absolute best effort. He would show his father how much he had learned, how dedicated he was to his dream.
With that resolution firmly in mind, Zoh had finally drifted off to sleep, his dreams filled with the clash of swords and the exhilaration of battle.