The transformation of Thalewood began that very night. The village square, once a place for quiet gatherings and festivals, now hummed with quiet activity. Tools were sharpened, ropes tied, and supplies gathered. The villagers, though hesitant, found themselves drawn to the energy of preparation.
Calen stood on the outskirts of the group, watching as Ronan directed the efforts. The scarred man had taken charge with the ease of someone who had done this before. Kira and the others—five in total—worked alongside him, organizing the villagers into small teams.
"Calen," Ronan called, motioning him over.
He approached, his stomach churning with a mix of nerves and anticipation.
"You're young, but you're strong," Ronan said, studying him. "And you've got a steady head on your shoulders. I'll need you to learn quickly if we're going to make this work."
Calen hesitated. "Learn what?"
"To fight," Ronan said simply.
The words struck Calen like a hammer. Fight? He had never so much as held a blade, let alone used one. The thought of standing against soldiers of the empire, trained and ruthless, seemed impossible.
"I… I'm not sure I can do that," Calen admitted.
Ronan's expression softened, but his voice remained firm. "None of us are sure, lad. But the choice isn't whether we can fight—it's whether we're willing to try. The empire won't give us the luxury of waiting."
Calen glanced around at the villagers. Most of them looked as uncertain as he felt, their hands clumsy with the unfamiliar tools of war. Yet, despite their fear, they were trying.
"I'll try," Calen said, his voice steadying.
Ronan nodded, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "Good. Then let's begin."
Ronan took Calen and a few others to a clearing just outside the village, away from prying eyes. The group included a mix of villagers—young men like Calen, hardened women like Marla, and even a wiry teenager named Finn, whose sharp eyes and quick hands had earned him a spot despite his age.
"We'll start with the basics," Ronan said, drawing a sword from his belt. The weapon gleamed in the moonlight, its edge sharp and deadly. "This is a tool, no different from a hoe or an axe. But it's also a promise. When you hold it, you're saying you'll protect what matters to you. Remember that."
He handed Calen a practice blade, its weight unfamiliar in his hands. "Hold it like this," Ronan instructed, adjusting Calen's grip. "Firm but not stiff. You want control, not force."
Calen followed his lead, mimicking the movements as Ronan demonstrated basic stances and strikes. The others did the same, their determination evident despite their awkwardness.
The hours passed in a blur of sweat and aching muscles. Calen stumbled more than once, his arms trembling under the weight of the blade. But each time he fell, Ronan was there to help him up, his voice steady.
"You're learning," Ronan said after Calen managed his first proper strike. "And that's all that matters for now."
As the group continued their practice, Calen began to notice something strange. The more he swung the blade, the less foreign it felt. His movements grew more fluid, his strikes more precise. It was as though some hidden part of him was waking up, guiding his hand.
By the time they returned to the village, Calen was exhausted but exhilarated. For the first time, he felt as though he could be more than just a farmer's son.
The days that followed were a blur of preparation. Under Ronan's guidance, the villagers built makeshift barricades at the village's entrances, fortified the cottages, and scouted the surrounding forest for potential threats.
Kira, the auburn-haired warrior, took charge of training the women and older children in archery. Elena, Calen's mother, worked tirelessly to prepare a stockpile of healing herbs and bandages. Even Finn proved invaluable, using his quick hands to repair weapons and craft traps for the forest.
Through it all, Calen threw himself into the work. He trained with Ronan by day and helped his father in the fields by evening. His body ached, and his mind raced with questions about the future, but he refused to falter.
One night, as he sat by the fire with his parents, Elena spoke softly.
"You've changed, Calen," she said, her voice tinged with both pride and worry.
Calen looked up from the blade he was sharpening. "Changed how?"
"You're… stronger," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Not just in body, but in spirit. I see it in the way you carry yourself."
Orin grunted in agreement. "Your mother's right. You're stepping up, son. That's not easy, especially for someone your age."
Calen felt a warmth in his chest at their words. But he also felt the weight of responsibility settling more heavily on his shoulders.
"I just want to help," he said simply.
Elena reached over and squeezed his hand. "You already are."
As the village prepared, Calen couldn't shake the feeling that something bigger was coming. He hadn't seen the woman in the woods again, but her words lingered in his mind.
Late one night, as the village lay quiet, Calen found himself drawn to the edge of the forest once more. The trees loomed dark and silent, their branches swaying gently in the wind.
"Why me?" he whispered into the shadows.
There was no response, only the soft rustle of leaves. But deep down, Calen knew the answer wasn't far away. The woman's prophecy, the travelers' arrival, the spark of rebellion—it was all connected. And he was at the center of it.
For better or worse, Thalewood's fate—and perhaps his own—had been set into motion.