Rowan awoke to another grey morning. The events of the job ceremony continued to weigh heavily on his mind as he listlessly chewed yesterday's stale bread. What purpose did he have without a role? Each day blended into the next in a haze of formless routine.
He dragged himself outside, pausing to lean against the rough bark of an aging oak. The village bustled as usual below, but from this perch it all seemed so small. Adults went about their duties with cheerful efficiency while Rowan remained lost and drifting. A pair of young boys sparred nearby, laughing and taunting one another in mimic battles. Once that might've brought him joy, but now only dug at old wounds.
That eve, he sat alone on the hilltop watching the sun's final rays fade beyond distant forest borders. Out there in the gathering dusk, what mysteries lay waiting? What deeds remained for him if not this? A familiar figure broke his lonely reverie, approaching with a gentle smile. "Elia," he sighed, finding solace in her presence as the first stars kindled above them. "This moping doesn't suit you, Rowan," said Elia gently. "You were meant for greater things than self-pity."
Rowan gazed glumly at the tree line, silvered by moonlight. "How can there be more, without purpose or title?"
Elia took his hands. "You find your own purpose, silly. Remember how we'd play-battle with wooden swords? You were just as fierce a dragon slayer then as any of the boys, title or no." A hint of memory's smile tugged at Rowan's cheeks. "You always loved that game most of all."
"Think of how you'd guide the blade, how your body moved," Elia continued. "I've seen you watch Geralt drill the village men, haven't I? You have a warrior's soul, Rowan - follow it. Let the sword become your calling and show all who jeered what you can truly be."
Her words struck deep as the gathering stars. A purpose lay not in another's granting but within - forged by his own hand and spirit. Rowan met Elia's eyes, filled with new hope and resolve. "Teach me to fight. I will walk the path to knighthood and prove myself protector of this village!" Rowan nodded, determination stealing into his eyes. "I will train until my hands know the sword better than any. But who would take a title less boy as student?"
Elia smiled knowingly. "Geralt is always searching for those with heart over pedigree. I'll arrange your introduction tomorrow."
With Elia's support kindling his spirit, restless energy replaced despair's dull weight through the night. At dawn's first light, Rowan rose and made for the village green, where men gathered each morn for drill. There, amid barking instructions and clashing wooden blades, stood weathered Sergeant Geralt, puttering about in distant memory of wars' end. Rowan watched, enrapt, drinking in each parry and lunge. This would be his calling.
"A fire burns in that one," remarked Geralt, following Rowan's stare. "Fetch him to me, would you?" Heart pounding, Rowan approached, desperate to prove himself worthy of training, though lacking title or coin. Before him spread unknown lengths of toil and practice - but each step brought closer his vowed protection of this land. His destiny was primed to begin. Rowan approached the grizzled veteran, summoning his courage. "Excuse me, sir, but might I beg a favor?"
Geralt eyed the uncertain boy. "What is it, then? Speak up."
"I wish to learn the blade," Rowan said, hoping to zeal his tempered youthful tremors. "But I lack resources and renown. If you'd grant me lessons, I vow to give all in training."
At that, Geralt threw back his head and laughed, sad and deeply. "Many, say the same, lad, and few see it through. What makes you any different?"
Elia stepped forward then, laying a hand on Rowan's shoulder. "This one has spirit to spare," she insisted. "And a duty to fulfill, though his path lies shrouded. I ask you train him as my favor, Geralt - his heart will not steer him wrong."
The sergeant considered them both pensively, then nodded once. "For your faith in him, girl, I'll try the boy. But know this - I show no mercy or kindness in the ring. If his will proves weak, he's done. Do you understand?"
Rowan stood taller beneath Elia's touch. "I understand, sir. And I thank you for this chance. My training begins at your leave." Geralt granted a rare smile. "Then let's see what this pup can do."
The next morning Rowan awoke before dawn's first light, electrified yet leaden-limbed. His new life began today.
The training yard came alive as Rowan arrived, men stretching and swinging in preparation. Geralt stood watchful as ever at the circle's heart. "Over here, pup. Let's see what you're made of."
Weapons were naught but lengths of wood - but each blow landed with force enough to darken and bruise. Rowan floundered at first beneath the swarming strikes, shield scarcely raising before the next assault. But he endured the pain and learned.
Days blended through relentless repetition of forms. Jabs and parries became instinct, footwork flowed like water. Yet the body remained his greatest enemy, leaden limbs and aching joints pleading for reprieve after each grueling session.
Quiet evenings found Rowan hacking at trees alongside the trickling brook, pushing on despite exhaustion. Those still jeering would not see him falter. His hands knew calluses now, and muscle rippled where once hung only skin and bone. Each move came swifter, each block sturdier. Strength of body followed strength of soul.
Through it all Geralt voiced no praise, but his blows lost some intensity. In the clearings of Rowan's mind, a vision appeared of him shielding his village with the skill being forged through blood and sweat. His destiny was sculpted anew each day. Rowan woke before dawn as always, slipping away into the grey mist that shrouded the woods. Here, surrounded by towering sentinels, he was alone with his craft.
Branches stood surrogate for villainous blades, each strike meant to protect home and loved ones. Rowan spun through the dance, losing himself to the songs of steel upon bark. Sweat slicked his brow, breaths emerging in great clouds, but he pushed on.
As sunrise lit the forest in gold-tinged emerald, his solitary session reached its crescendo. Leaping high, Rowan brought his practice blade slicing down with all his body's united strength and will. The thick bough split with a resounding crack, showering needles downward in solemn tribute.
He stood amid the carnage, chest swelling with hard-won pride. Each private victory fortified his resolve, honing body and spirit alike until both sang as one instrument. He was a talent that would not be contained by convention or title. This, and all else, was owed to Elia's encouragement that set him on the righteous path.
Somewhere deep, an observer's eyes gleamed approval upon the solitary warrior. For his unbending passion alone ensured the village's protection in seasons yet unknown. And so, the guardianship was sanctioned once more, in the only manner deserving of such a champion's heart. Rowan swung in the fog-cloaked glade, guided by muscle memory alone. A rustling arose as stealthy feet traversed the damp foliage. He spun, practice blade poised - only to find Elia regarding him with a smile.
"Not bad, guardian. Your form improves daily." She sat upon a moss-lined hollow, beckoning him to rest. Gratefully, Rowan complied, leaning against the gnarled trunk beside her.
"And your magic?" he asked between grateful breaths. "What new tricks have you to show?" Elia's eyes gleamed, holding forth a leaf that twisted upon invisible currents.
"Master wishes I cultivate subtlety. Manipulating nature is a privilege, he says." The leaf danced upon her gentle exhale, curtsying before crumbling into soil once more.
Rowan watched in awe. "You have a gift, to be sure. And I - with blade in hand and you at my side, what foe could hope to stand against us?" Elia laughed softly, taking his work-rough hands in her own.
"None, so long as we walk this path together. Now come - the hour grows late, and supper awaits us both." Refreshed, Rowan rose, following where she led as always. Their bond stayed his greatest strength. Rowan flowed through the forms with surety born of long practice, wooden blade arcing smoothly through the crisp dawn air. Sweat slicked his lean frame yet his breathing remained steady, focused wholly on the dance.
Geralt watched from the training circle's edge, appraising with a gleam in his eye. The boy had come far - where once floundered an uncertain recruit now stood a warrior in spirit, if not experience.
Rowan finished with a flourish and straightened, turning expectantly to the sergeant. "Not bad, pup. Your footwork holds steady, and your strikes carry intent. Might be you've a talent yet."
A rare smile broke across Rowan's face. "Thank you, sir. It gladdens me to have improved under your tutelage. Though much is still to learn."
Geralt nodded gruffly. "Aye, you have the mind for the game and the heart of a fighter. With time and the right guidance, who knows what heights you may reach. Come, then - today we begin live steel. Meet me at noon for your first true lesson."
Joy and anticipation twisted sharp in Rowan's gut as Geralt departed. At last, his training progressed to the level of knights and soldiers. No longer was he an outcast - his destiny was to defend, and now the skills to see it through were within grasp. The future shone bright before him. Rowan awoke to sunlight slanting across his small bed, filled with a restless energy. This day marked one year since Fate's crossroads, and ten changing seasons of life.
His morning routine finished; Rowan made to join Geralt's drills. But the sergeant stopped him with an upraised hand. "A gift, for your commitment." He placed a parcel on the stump between them, wrapped plain in oilcloth.
Hands trembling, Rowan drew forth a polished longsword blazing with intricate leaf work. It sang a keen note as he balanced the perfect weight. "This is...truly for me?"
Geralt's smile reached his eyes. "You've earned your right to bear steel, pup. Now show me what you can do."
That eve, Rowan wandered the mist-cloaked woods, blade agleam in the moon's pale light. His vow from ages past echoed in the stillness: This gift shall be my honor and burden, to wield in protection of my home until strength deserts this arm. Each training to hone skill and spirit anew.
A figure appeared from the silvery gloaming - Elia, proud and pleased. Your path shines brighter with every step," she smiled. "This is only the first chapter's close," Rowan replied. "My story has only just begun.