Riven could still hear the sound of his mother's voice, soft and steady, as she taught him how to fight. They had always trained in secret, deep within the woods, far from the eyes of the villagers who feared him. His mother was strong, her hands calloused from years of wielding weapons. She moved with the grace of someone who had seen battle, though Riven had never been told what battles she had fought in.
"Keep your guard up," she instructed, her voice calm despite the intensity of the session. "Your opponent won't wait for you to think. They'll strike when you're uncertain, and that's when you're vulnerable."
Riven wiped the sweat from his brow, adjusting his stance. His mother's gaze was unwavering, a steady reminder that there was no room for error.
He lunged forward, swinging his wooden sword in a sharp arc, aiming for her shoulder. She deflected it effortlessly, her own weapon moving in a blur. Before he could recover, she swept his legs out from under him, and he hit the ground with a thud.
"Too slow," she said, offering him her hand to help him up. "You have to anticipate, Riven. You must always be thinking three steps ahead."
Riven grumbled as he accepted her hand, pulling himself to his feet. "I was thinking," he muttered. "You're just faster."
His mother smiled, the expression softening her otherwise stern features. "One day, you'll be faster."
But there was something in her eyes—something distant, like she was holding back a truth too heavy for him to bear. Riven didn't press her on it. He knew better than to ask questions she wasn't ready to answer.
As they continued training, Riven couldn't help but notice the way the mark on his hand pulsed. It was faint, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, but it was there. A constant reminder of what set him apart. What made him dangerous.
"Mom," he asked after a particularly difficult sparring session, his voice quieter than usual. "Why do people hate me?"
His mother paused, lowering her sword. She didn't answer right away, her gaze falling to the mark on his hand. For a moment, she looked sad—sadder than he had ever seen her.
"They don't hate you, Riven," she said, her voice gentle. "They fear what they don't understand."
"But why?" he pressed, looking down at the mark himself. It didn't look like much—a strange symbol etched into his skin, glowing faintly whenever he used his powers. "What's so scary about me?"
His mother knelt in front of him, taking his marked hand in hers. She traced the symbol with her thumb, her touch both soothing and sad.
"This mark," she said, "is a sign of great power. Power that most people can't comprehend. And when people don't understand something, they fear it. It's human nature."
Riven frowned, his small hands tightening into fists. "But I don't want to be feared. I just want to be normal."
His mother's smile was bittersweet. "Normal is overrated," she said, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "You're destined for great things, Riven. But greatness comes with a price."
He didn't understand her words at the time.
He didn't want to. All he wanted was to fit in, to be like the other boys in the village. But deep down, he knew that was impossible. He was different, and no amount of wishing could change that.