The house was eerily quiet, broken only by the faint bubbling of a pot over the fire. Corrin, as named by the blacksmith, stood still, his bare feet pressing against the warm dirt floor and his small hands clutching the rough wooden wall to steady himself. At six years old—blind, yet perceptive beyond his years—he had learned to listen, to feel, more deeply than most. His head tilted slightly, his senses sharp as he detected the subtle vibration of movement behind him.
The blacksmith's wife moved swiftly, cold and resentful in her every action. Her fingers tightened around his tiny wrist, guiding him toward the edge of the fire pit, the boiling pot of soup hissing and threatening with every bubble. She nudged him closer, her face a mask of impatience.
But as the heat whispered too near, Corrin's small body jerked back instinctively. He stepped away, stumbling slightly, but his reflexes were quick, and he caught himself. In that heartbeat, the pot rattled as a splash of soup splattered onto the floor, narrowly missing his feet.
The woman froze, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and disbelief. Corrin, confused but unharmed, turned his head toward the sound, his face unreadable.
Without a word, she hurried to clean up the mess, her hands shaking slightly as she poured the remaining soup away. She began cooking a new batch as though nothing had happened, her face pale but silent.
Moments later, the front door creaked open. Maro, the blacksmith, entered—his broad shoulders heavy with the weight of the day. He carried something wrapped in cloth, his eyes scanning the room, taking in the lingering smell of burnt soup and the tension in the air.
He didn't speak to her. His gaze dropped to Corrin, and something inside him twisted—a silent ache passing through him at the sight of the boy.
"Hey, little warrior," Maro said softly, his voice low as he knelt down to Corrin's level.
Corrin smiled up at him, his face lighting with the warmth of a rare, genuine connection.
Maro reached behind his back and pulled out two small wooden weapons—an axe and a sword, both rough-hewn and handmade.
"I thought you might want to play," he said with a smile, not waiting for permission.
Taking Corrin's hand, he led him outside, away from the house, into the clearing near the workshop.
"I want to try something," Maro said quietly, his voice dropping to a hush.
He handed Corrin the sword. "Now, strike."
Corrin swung it, his motion weak and uncertain. But before Maro could step in to guide him, Corrin stepped aside, his small body moving with a precision that was impossible to miss. He had sensed Maro's motion—anticipated it. Maro blinked, a surge of surprise flickering in his chest. He tested him again, and again Corrin dodged, each movement more confident than the last. A third time, and Corrin swung upward, his aim blind yet precise—the edge of the wooden sword brushing the hem of Maro's shirt.
"You... felt that?" Maro asked, stunned, his voice barely a whisper.
Corrin nodded, his tone calm. "You're loud when you move."
Maro's jaw dropped in astonishment, and then a smile spread across his face—a smile of awe.
"Again," he murmured, eager to see more.
They sparred. Corrin, moving with the grace of instinct, dodged, reacted, and felt the world around him. At one point, he flung his small axe into the air, sending it spiraling with perfect form. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and gently pressed the wooden sword against Maro's throat, a mere breath from victory. And just as quickly, his other hand shot up, catching the falling axe before it could hit the ground.
Maro stood frozen, staring at him in disbelief. He felt as though he had just witnessed a miracle—something extraordinary, something beyond explanation.
A thought—no, a purpose—blossomed within him, sudden and clear.
He bent down and placed his hand on Corrin's shoulder, his voice soft but determined.
"You're going to train," he whispered. "Really train."
That night, Maro gathered Corrin's few belongings, tying them in cloth with swift, practiced hands. He didn't speak a word to his wife. He simply walked out of the house, Corrin's small hand clutched firmly in his own.
They set off toward the hidden fighter's school—a place built in secrecy, nestled deep within the jungle beyond the outer farms. The location was known only to the most trusted within the tribe—a secret kept from outsiders, from soldiers, and from spies. Only the chosen few knew of its existence.
The school accepted Corrin.
As they returned from registration, walking down the misted valley trail, the sound of movement ahead caught their attention. Two soldiers appeared in the distance—Imperial and armored, their rifles lazily slung at their sides.
Maro slowed his pace, gently placing Corrin behind him. His body tensed, his instincts on high alert.
"We're just peaceful folk," Maro said, his voice calm but firm, hands lifted in a gesture of surrender. "We want no trouble."
One soldier laughed—a cruel, mocking sound that echoed in the stillness.
"Then bow and lick my boots," the other sneered, his voice dripping with malice.
Maro's fists clenched, his eyes darkening. He looked down briefly, his gaze lingering on Corrin before he nodded, his voice quieter now. "Fine. Just let the boy go."
He knelt.
As the soldier stepped forward, a flash of steel caught the light. Maro's hand darted to his boot, drawing a hidden knife from his sleeve. With a swift motion, he plunged it into the soldier's throat.
Blood sprayed in a bright arc.
Corrin flinched, the sound of it sending a shiver through his body.
The other soldier shouted, raising his gun. Maro turned to Corrin, his voice desperate.
"Run! Run, Corrin—"
But the shot came too quickly, cutting off his words. The bullet tore through Maro's skull, and in an instant, he crumpled to the ground.
Corrin didn't see it. But he felt it—the sudden absence of warmth, the shift in the air, the unbearable wrongness that settled into the world.
He stumbled back, his hands trembling, his heart racing with fear.
And then, instinct took over.
He ran.
He ran toward the jungle. Toward the school. Toward his destiny.