The days after Lyra's departure were a blur for Drona. The village felt empty without her laughter echoing through the trees, and the ache in his chest lingered like an old wound. He threw himself into his chores, moving through the motions with a fierce determination, his mind focused on one goal: becoming a knight worthy of standing by Lyra's side.
His mother, Liana, noticed the change in him. She was a strong woman, graceful and resolute, with hands worn from years of work and a face softened by gentle kindness. She had raised him alone since his father died in the war, and though she rarely spoke of it, Drona knew she felt the same emptiness he did. They had always been each other's source of strength.
One evening, as they sat by the fire, his mother looked at him with a mixture of pride and worry. "You're growing up so fast, Drona," she said softly, her eyes reflecting the flickering flames. "It's hard to believe how much you remind me of your father."
Drona's heart swelled with both pride and sadness. He had only vague memories of his father—a tall, brave man who had left for battle and never returned. But Drona carried his father's spirit within him, a fierce, unwavering drive to protect those he loved.
"I want to make him proud, Ma," he said, his voice steady. "And I want to become strong enough to stand by Lyra's side."
His mother smiled, though sadness lingered in her gaze. "I know, my love. Just remember, strength comes in many forms. You'll face trials, both inside and out. But if you hold on to your heart, you'll find your way."
The next day, Drona took his first steps toward becoming a knight. At just eleven, he entered the village's training grounds, joining the squires—boys who dreamed of one day serving the kingdom. It was grueling, harder than anything he had imagined. They ran laps in heavy armor, practiced swordplay until their arms ached, and took hits that left bruises for days. But every time he felt his spirit falter, he thought of Lyra, remembered her parting words, and pushed himself even harder.
Days turned into weeks, and as the training intensified, so did Drona's resolve. Other boys joked and laughed, but Drona stayed focused, almost silent, always the last one on the practice field and the first to arrive in the morning. His instructors began to notice his determination, murmuring among themselves about the "quiet boy with the fire in his eyes."
At night, he returned home to his mother's warm embrace. She would tend to his bruises, her touch gentle yet firm, and listen as he recounted every small victory and defeat.
One evening, after a particularly grueling day, he sat at the table, exhaustion settling over him. His mother placed a bowl of stew in front of him, her hand lingering on his shoulder.
"Are you happy, Drona?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.
He looked up at her, surprised by the question. "Yes, Ma. I know it's hard, but I want this. I need to be strong…for Lyra, for you, and for myself."
She nodded, understanding, though her eyes were shadowed with worry. "Just promise me, Drona, that no matter what, you'll remember who you are. Strength is only true when it's bound by love and honor."
He promised, and as he ate in silence, he thought about what she had said. She was right, of course. His desire to be strong was fueled by more than just pride—it was a promise to those he loved.
As the months went by, Drona became known among the squires for his unwavering resolve. He grew stronger, faster, his skill with a blade improving each day. Yet, for every step he took, he felt the weight of his promise pressing down on him, reminding him that this journey was only beginning.
And every night, as he lay on his cot, he whispered to himself, "I'll catch up to you, Lyra. I promise."
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End of Chapter 2
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