The first rays of dawn had barely crested over the horizon when Kael found himself standing in front of the old barn, stretching and trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. His father had woken him earlier than usual, even before the roosters had a chance to announce the day. The morning air was crisp, a light mist clinging to the grass, and the silence of the village still hung over Eldenwood like a blanket.
The barn, their designated training ground, stood at the edge of their small plot of land. It was a rough structure, hastily put together years ago, with walls of weather-beaten wood that creaked in the wind and a roof that threatened to cave in during every storm. Inside, it was sparse—dusty hay scattered on the floor, an old wooden plow propped against the far wall, and several wooden crates stacked in one corner. It was meant to house animals, but the family had never been able to afford livestock. So instead, it was a place for storage—and now, Kael supposed, for his training.
He glanced around, noting the musty smell of dry hay mixed with the earthy scent of the dirt floor. The air inside felt thick, almost stifling, as if the barn had been closed up for too long. His father, Ronan, stood in the center of the barn, grinning at Kael like he was about to have the time of his life.
"Alright, lad," Ronan said, clapping his hands together. "You wanted to learn how to fight, so here we are. We'll start with some basics. And by basics, I mean the things that'll make you tough, not fancy swordplay or any of that nonsense."
Kael swallowed, already regretting his decision a little. His father looked too excited, like he had been waiting for this moment for years. "What kind of basics?" Kael asked cautiously.
Ronan's grin widened. "Workouts, of course! You can't be a fighter if your body isn't up to it. Now, let's see how you do with this."
He motioned toward a large wooden beam that lay on the floor of the barn. It was part of an old cart that had broken down a few years back. Kael looked at it, then at his father, who crossed his arms over his chest, waiting expectantly.
"Pick it up," Ronan said.
Kael blinked. "What?"
"The beam. Pick it up. Carry it from one end of the barn to the other."
Kael stared at the beam, then back at his father. "You're joking, right? That thing weighs a ton!"
Ronan chuckled, shaking his head. "No jokes here, lad. You want to get strong, don't you? Well, strength comes from pushing your limits. Now pick it up."
Grumbling under his breath, Kael bent down and gripped the beam with both hands. He tried to lift it, but the thing was ridiculously heavy, and his muscles strained with the effort. After a few failed attempts, he finally managed to get it off the ground, his arms trembling as he staggered forward. The beam dragged along the dirt floor, kicking up dust and hay as he struggled to move it across the barn.
"Good! Keep going!" Ronan called out, his voice booming with enthusiasm. "You're doing fine!"
Kael's entire body ached, and he could feel sweat beading on his forehead, dripping down his face. His legs wobbled with each step, and his arms felt like they were on fire. By the time he reached the other end of the barn, he was gasping for breath, his chest heaving.
"Alright, drop it," Ronan said, and Kael let the beam fall to the ground with a loud thud. He collapsed onto his knees, panting, while his father stood over him, grinning like he had just won a bet.
"That was torture," Kael wheezed.
"That was just the warm-up!" Ronan laughed, slapping Kael on the back so hard that he nearly fell over. "Next, we'll do some sparring. Come on, lad, get on your feet!"
Kael groaned as he stood up, feeling every muscle in his body protest. His father handed him a wooden stick—his "weapon" for the sparring session. Ronan had his own stick, slightly longer and thicker, which he spun in his hands like it was a toy.
"We'll keep it simple for now," Ronan said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You attack, and I'll defend. Try to hit me. Go on, give it your best shot."
Kael narrowed his eyes, gripping the stick tightly. He took a deep breath and swung at his father with all the strength he could muster. But before his stick even came close to landing a hit, Ronan sidestepped effortlessly, chuckling to himself as Kael stumbled forward.
"Too slow!" Ronan taunted. "Try again!"
Kael growled in frustration, swinging again—this time aiming for his father's side. But once again, Ronan blocked the strike with ease, his own stick whipping out to tap Kael's arm with a sharp smack.
"Ow!" Kael yelped, rubbing his arm where the stick had hit. "You didn't say you'd hit back!"
"It's a fight, lad!" Ronan laughed. "You think someone's going to wait for you to land a hit? Keep your guard up, or you'll get pummeled every time."
Kael felt a surge of annoyance. He swung again, and again, each time missing as his father either dodged or blocked, always with that same amused grin on his face. Every missed strike felt like a blow to his pride, and every time Ronan tapped him with the stick—on his arm, his leg, even his back—it only made him more indignant.
"You're not even trying!" Kael snapped after yet another failed attempt. His stick hung limply in his hand, and he could feel his face burning with embarrassment.
"I'm teaching you," Ronan replied, his voice calm but firm. "And you need to learn that fighting isn't just about swinging as hard as you can. It's about strategy. Observation. Patience."
Kael scowled, his frustration boiling over. "Easy for you to say. You've been doing this for years!"
"And you'll get there too, if you stick with it." Ronan laughed again, a hearty sound that echoed through the barn. "But for now, you'll just have to keep trying. Everyone gets their tail handed to them at the start."
Kael wanted to argue, but he knew it wouldn't help. He was getting pummeled, and his father was clearly enjoying himself. The lopsided grin, the mocking chuckle—it all grated on Kael's nerves. He could see his father was holding back, not taking him seriously. It wasn't fair. Kael knew he was just starting out, but still—it didn't make getting beaten any easier.
They sparred for what felt like hours, with Kael swinging clumsily and his father effortlessly deflecting every blow. His arms ached, his legs felt like jelly, and the inside of the barn seemed to close in around him with its dusty, claustrophobic atmosphere. Every time Kael fell or missed, he could hear Ronan's laughter, and every time, it made his blood boil a little more.
After what felt like an eternity, Ronan finally called for a break. Kael collapsed onto a bale of hay, panting and drenched in sweat. His stick had fallen to the floor beside him, and he didn't even have the energy to pick it up.
"Not bad for your first time," Ronan said, sitting down beside him, still grinning. "You've got a lot to learn, but you've got spirit. That counts for something."
Kael didn't respond. He was too tired, too sore, and too annoyed to say anything. He stared at the ground, his chest still heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
"Cheer up, lad," Ronan said, giving him another hearty slap on the back. "You'll get better. And once you do, we'll see who's laughing then, eh?"
Kael grumbled under his breath, but he couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at the corner of his lips. His father's laughter might have annoyed him to no end, but deep down, he knew he was learning something. Even if it meant getting pummeled every step of the way.