*Helios*
Father didn't sleep that night. I could hear him moving outside, quietly sharpening blades and checking the perimeter like he was expecting another wave of goblins.
Aaron eventually drifted into restless sleep, muttering in half-dreams. I watched him from the doorway — his brow furrowed, tension heavy in his chest. There was more weighing him down than just yesterday's spar. I wished I knew how to lift it.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I traced the worn floorboards with tired eyes. Father's calm had always felt like a coiled spring — taut, ready to snap. A man who teaches you how to break bones at fourteen is no stranger to violence, no stranger to danger.
But hearing the truth about our blood, the weight behind his silence — it left a raw edge inside me.
I never knew my real mother or father. Father never spoke of them. Aaron barely mentioned it either. Still, even without blood binding us, our connection was ironclad.
At dawn, Father handed me a heavy round shield, scarred and worn from countless battles.
"No weapons for you," he said, voice low but firm. "Your shield will be your voice."
We moved to the clearing. The sun was already fierce, casting long shadows behind us. The world felt silent but alive with tension.
"Block," Father commanded, and I raised the shield instinctively.
"Step," he continued, "always step. Feet first."
I felt the weight of the shield in my arm, a solid wall I could trust. It wasn't just defense — it was a weapon. A blunt force to redirect, to bash, to break.
Father's voice was steady as he guided me: "Shift your weight. Don't resist force — use it. Let their blows become your momentum."
He pushed me suddenly, shield to shield, a brutal shove that sent me stumbling back. Lying on the earth, breath ragged, I looked up just in time to see his hand extended.
"You're thinking too much," he said, pulling me to my feet. "Your body knows. Let it lead."
Aaron appeared beside us, quick as a flash. His fists were precise, a flurry of sharp jabs and tight hooks, each one probing for a weakness.
I raised the shield, angling it to absorb his strikes. The wood thudded as his fists collided with it, reverberating up my arm. He danced around me, fluid and fast, testing my guard.
A jab caught me in the ribs — not heavy, but enough to stagger me. My breath caught.
"He's better," I muttered to myself, tasting the metallic tang of sweat and dirt.
Father watched us, silent but sharp-eyed.
"The enemy won't wait for you to be ready," he said quietly. "You won't have time to doubt yourselves."
We drilled footwork and recovery, shield bashes and counters, Aaron's punches flowing like water against my defenses.
Every clash, every parry, taught me more about my own limits and how to push past them.
My arms ached, my breath came in ragged bursts. Aaron's lip split again, but his grin never faded.
In that scorching clearing, beneath the blazing sun, I understood something deeper:
This wasn't just training. It was survival.