Nico stood in the clearing, heart racing as he focused on the swaying branches above. The air buzzed with the faint scent of pine, and a gentle breeze played with his hair, but none of that distracted him. He could feel Pilos's presence nearby, an anchor grounding him as they prepared for another round of training.
"Let it flow through you," Pilos instructed, his voice steady. "Find that calm within chaos."
Nico tightened his grip on the bowstring, feeling its tautness resonate against his fingers. He had been striving for this state—piercing mind—as they called it; a clarity that transcended panic and fear during combat. He breathed deeply, letting the world fade into a blur around him.
A sharp crack echoed through the trees as Pilos loosed an arrow, its flight swift and sure. Nico watched intently, observing how Pilos drew back smoothly before releasing.
"Your turn," Pilos said with a nod.
Nico stepped forward, setting his stance while picturing the target downrange. The moment stretched out like an eternity; he felt adrenaline pulse through him like wildfire.
"Focus," Pilos urged again, stepping back to give Nico space. "Close your eyes if you need to."
With determination, Nico squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled slowly. His heartbeat became a rhythmic thrum—a drum guiding him deeper into that elusive state of mind. He could almost feel the energy around him vibrating; the forest held its breath as if waiting for him to unleash something extraordinary.
A faint image emerged in his mind: the path of his arrow slicing through air with perfect precision. He opened his eyes suddenly and took aim at the target.
"Release!" Pilos called out just as Nico let go.
The arrow flew true, hitting its mark dead center.
"Yes!" Nico shouted in exhilaration.
Pilos clapped him on the shoulder with approval. "That's it! You're getting closer."
Nico beamed at the praise but quickly redirected his focus back to their training session. This hunt would be significant—not just another outing for game but a chance to prove himself alongside seasoned hunters like Elsid and Pilos. The thrill of anticipation stirred within him again; he was ready for whatever awaited them in those woods.
They continued their practice as shadows stretched across the ground, and soon twilight began to cloak the clearing in blue hues. With every shot fired and each piece of advice from Pilos absorbed, Nico felt himself inching closer to mastery over this piercing mind state—a skill that would undoubtedly serve him well during their imminent hunt.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the clearing, Pilos stepped back, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.
"You've come a long way, Nico," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "I've taught you just about everything I can for now. Anything beyond this point? That's up to you to discover."
Nico's heart sank slightly at the thought of leaving the safety of guidance behind. He nodded, though uncertainty flickered in his chest.
"Find your own rhythm in the woods," Pilos continued, gesturing towards the trees surrounding them. "Listen to the sounds, feel the energy of your surroundings. You'll know when to act."
The words resonated deeply with Nico. He recalled their previous sessions—how each lesson felt like peeling back layers of himself he hadn't known existed. Yet now, a sense of pressure settled over him as he faced this new challenge alone.
"When's the hunt?" Nico asked, forcing his voice to remain steady despite his swirling thoughts.
"In two days." Pilos straightened up and dusted off his tunic. "We'll gather early and head out before dawn breaks. Elsid wants everyone prepared."
"Got it," Nico replied, excitement sparking within him again despite his earlier trepidation.
Pilos regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before adding, "Keep practicing with your sword and remember what we've worked on together. The Stoneheart Resonance isn't just about strength; it's about focus and intent."
Nico felt a surge of determination welling inside him once more. He imagined himself among seasoned hunters, their skills honed through years of experience, and felt an urge to rise to that challenge.
"I won't let you down," he declared with newfound resolve.
"Just trust yourself," Pilos encouraged with an approving nod.
As they finished their training session and began packing up their gear, Nico glanced towards the encroaching darkness beyond the clearing. The looming hunt seemed to transform into a gateway—a chance for him to prove himself not only as Hab's grandson but as a capable hunter in his own right.
With thoughts racing and excitement coursing through him like wildfire, he couldn't shake off how close he was to stepping into that world where every decision mattered—a world where survival relied on instinct and skill.
Nico stepped into Garrick's forge, the familiar scent of hot metal and smoke enveloping him. The rhythmic clang of hammer against anvil rang in his ears, grounding him as he approached the broad-shouldered blacksmith. Garrick worked with a focused intensity, sweat beading on his brow as he shaped a piece of iron.
"Garrick," Nico called out, raising his voice to be heard over the din.
The blacksmith paused, glancing up with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Nico! What brings you here today?"
"I wanted to thank you," Nico replied, taking a step closer. "For helping me with my swordplay this past week."
Garrick wiped his hands on his apron, the fabric darkened by soot and grime. "You've been a quick learner," he said with genuine pride. "I can't believe how far you've come in such a short time."
Nico shifted on his feet, recalling the way his shortsword had bent slightly during one particularly intense self session. He had nearly forgotten to seek Garrick's help until that moment. "I had some issues with my sword—had to get it repaired after training yesterday," he admitted sheepishly.
Garrick chuckled, the sound booming like thunder in the confined space. "It happens more often than you'd think, especially for beginners." He gestured toward a nearby table where tools lay scattered amongst various pieces of metalwork. "You're lucky I've still got some skills left in me; I can get that fixed up for you."
"Thanks," Nico said earnestly, feeling gratitude swell within him. He watched Garrick move to retrieve the sword, appreciating how even though the blacksmith was extremely rusty from years away from knight training, he remained someone who could help him hone his skills.
As Garrick inspected the blade, Nico felt a rush of warmth at their connection—a bond forged not just through lessons but through shared laughter and determination.
"I know I'm not as experienced as other knights," Nico admitted quietly, watching Garrick work. "But your guidance means a lot to me."
The blacksmith nodded slowly, his expression shifting to one of understanding. "Everyone starts somewhere, lad. You've got what it takes; just keep pushing yourself."
Nico met Garrick's gaze and felt reassured by those words as he considered how far he had come and how much further there was still to go under Garrick's tutelage.
Nico shifted on his feet, watching Garrick as he inspected the blade. An urge to understand the man's past bubbled up inside him, spurred by their growing camaraderie.
"Why did you rush your training?" Nico asked cautiously. "I mean, you're a blacksmith now, but you were a knight once, right? What made you push so hard that you'd ruin your own foundation?"
Garrick's hands stilled for a moment, the weight of Nico's question hanging in the air like a dark cloud. He looked up, and for the briefest instant, a flicker of something haunted crossed his face—regret? Anger? But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
"That's none of your business," Garrick replied sharply, his voice low and tight.
Nico recoiled slightly at the abruptness, but he held his ground. The curiosity lingered in his chest like an unquenchable fire. He knew there was more beneath the surface—a story that shaped this man who forged swords and shields yet had turned away from the path of knighthood.
"Just… I don't want to make the same mistakes," Nico pressed gently. "If I'm going to be stronger, I want to know what to avoid."
Garrick's expression hardened further as if Nico had struck a nerve. He set down the sword with care, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're still just a boy," he said flatly. "Some things are better left unspoken until you're ready to hear them."
Nico frowned at that; he could feel a wall rising between them. He had hoped for wisdom but found only shadows instead. It frustrated him that Garrick seemed unwilling—or perhaps unable—to share even a fragment of his story.
"Years pass quickly," Garrick continued after a moment's pause, his voice softening slightly. "When you're older and if you ever feel better about it all... maybe then I'll tell you."
A silence fell over them as Garrick turned back to the forge, clearly signaling an end to their conversation. Nico felt disappointment settle in his gut but understood that someone elses battles were not his to fight—at least not today.
With thoughts swirling in his mind about foundations and choices made long ago, Nico waited patiently while Garrick focused on repairing the sword.
Nico settled onto a wooden crate, its surface rough beneath him. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply to drown out the clanging of metal from Garrick's forge. Thoughts whirled in his mind—anxiety about the hunt, worry over Hab's absence, and the shadows of uncertainty creeping closer.
He focused on each breath, inhaling through his nose and exhaling slowly through his mouth. As he concentrated, the chaotic noise around him faded, replaced by the rhythmic pulse of his heart. He envisioned himself surrounded by trees and sunlight, feeling the ground solid beneath him—a sanctuary away from distractions.
Hours slipped by as he lost himself in this meditative state. Memories flickered like fireflies—his parents' laughter echoing in the back of his mind, moments shared with Hab filled with warmth and guidance. Each recollection grounded him further in purpose; he aimed to honor their legacies through his training.
A sharp clang shattered the tranquility. Nico opened his eyes to see Garrick stepping away from the anvil, wiping sweat from his brow with a grimy cloth.
"Finished," Garrick announced, holding up Nico's repaired sword for inspection.
Nico's heart raced as he took the blade from Garrick's hands. The bronze gleamed under the dim light of the forge; it felt heavier than before but reassuring in its weight.
"Just be careful with it," Garrick advised, a hint of concern lacing his voice. "Bronze is sturdy but not invincible."
"I will," Nico promised, studying the sword's polished surface and feeling pride swell within him.
Garrick cleared his throat before continuing, "I apologize that I can only make you a bronze one for now. But if this hunt is particularly bountiful for you—"
Nico perked up at that prospect.
"—seek Elsid out after," Garrick continued. "Exchange whatever you bring back for some iron ore. I'll smelt you an iron sword instead."
His brow furrowed slightly as Nico absorbed that information. Iron swords had more power behind them than bronze—a step towards becoming a true knight.
"I've been focusing on swords made with leftover copper lately," Garrick explained, scratching at his beard thoughtfully. "I'm trying to get that balance right."
He gestured toward another corner of the forge where several blades lay cooling in their molds.
"You should be able to wield a decent sword paired with your shield soon enough," Garrick added. "Though it won't be as nimble as your short sword—it'll help you get accustomed to real weight."
Nico nodded slowly, feeling a sense of anticipation bubble within him at the thought of wielding something forged from iron instead of bronze.
Nico thanked Garrick, gripping the newly repaired sword tightly in his hands. The cool metal felt reassuring, a reminder of the weight he would bear in the hunt ahead.
"Stay sharp," Garrick called as Nico stepped out of the forge, a hint of a smile still lingering on his lips.
Nico nodded, his mind racing as he walked away. The village buzzed with anticipation for Elsid's announcement and the hunt that would follow, but beneath that excitement lurked an unsettling pressure. This was not just any hunt; it was a proving ground for him—a chance to show his worth.
As he made his way home, thoughts swirled like leaves caught in an autumn wind. He felt the weight of expectations pressing down on him. He couldn't afford to mess up this time. In a village where strength and skill determined one's place in society, success was paramount.
He knew that those with divine strength like him were rare—1 in every 1,000—but did it truly matter? Many held disdain for those blessed by magic and experimentation. If he faltered during this hunt, if he returned empty-handed or worse yet—injured—would they see him as just another boy? A boy without the experience to back up his talents?
Nico tightened his grip around the hilt of his sword. Sure, he had an innate advantage over many of his peers, but that alone wouldn't secure his position or earn him respect. The villagers valued accomplishments far more than potential. He could feel their eyes watching him—their whispers hanging like clouds over him each time he missed a shot or stumbled during training.
What if it all went wrong? He envisioned himself failing to bring back enough game to satisfy Elsid or worse yet, disappointing Hab yet again with half-hearted efforts and empty promises. Surely he would be angry with him when he returns.
If divine strength couldn't elevate him above mere mediocrity when it mattered most, would it mean anything at all? A gnawing doubt settled deep within him: Wasn't there more to worth than just raw power? Would he ever be able to master knight breathing techniques? Would it even matter?
As these thoughts clawed at him, Nico found himself pausing mid-step outside their home. It loomed before him—a sanctuary from uncertainty—but today it felt more like a cage, trapping him with expectations and fears.
Nico stood outside the door, his breath catching in his throat as he wrestled with the weight of expectations. The sword felt heavy in his grip, yet he sensed that the burden wasn't just about the metal—it was the pressure to become something greater than himself. But a flicker of realization sparked within him, cutting through the haze of self-doubt.
It was alright if he wasn't amazing. Perfection didn't have to be his goal. He could simply strive for enough strength—strength to protect himself and those he cared about. The thought settled in his chest like a comforting blanket.
He turned his gaze toward the horizon, where streaks of orange painted the sky, fading into deep blue. His mind wandered to Hab, Elara, and even Garrick. Each held a place in his heart that mattered more than accolades or prestige. If he could keep them safe, that would mean more than any title bestowed upon him.
Nico clenched his jaw, determination swelling within him like a rising tide. He didn't need to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders; he only needed to do what felt right—to defend what was precious. A sense of freedom washed over him as he considered how those around him had weathered their own struggles without needing to be perfect.
But little did he know that true protection often eluded even the strongest among them. He thought back on Garrick's words about mistakes and lessons learned; they echoed now with an ominous undertone he hadn't grasped before.
As Nico stepped inside, a quiet resolve settled in him. He was ready to train harder than ever before—not out of fear or insecurity but from a place of genuine love for those around him. In this moment, he found solace in knowing that while strength could shield against many dangers, it would never offer absolute safety for everyone.
He walked past Hab's empty chair at the table and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air scented by herbs from Tilda's garden that he's taken outside. The flickering candlelight danced across familiar walls—each shadow held memories of laughter and lessons shared with loved ones.
Nico took a seat and let thoughts drift away from perfectionism towards purpose instead. It wouldn't matter if he stumbled during the hunt; all that mattered was stepping forward with intent and caring fiercely for those who had always stood by him through thick and thin.