Aldric had not planned to train the boy.
He had left that part of his life behind long ago—swords, commands, oaths sworn in blood and battle. But Aaron had a way of pulling the past forward, one question at a time.
It began with wooden sticks in the yard, at age five. Aaron had watched Aldric chopping firewood and mimicked the motion, fists too small to hold the axe handle properly, but his eyes sharp with attention. A week later, Aldric carved a practice sword from birchwood and handed it to him without a word.
Aaron's fingers curled around the hilt like he'd been waiting for it all along.
"Balance first," Aldric said. "Then strength."
And so the lessons began.
They trained in the mornings, when the mist still hung over the river and the mountain wind had not yet stirred. Aldric taught him how to hold his stance, how to move his feet before swinging, how to fall without injury. Aaron fell often—and got up every time.
He was not the strongest boy. Not the fastest. But he was focused, precise, and never afraid to ask why.
At six, he learned how to make a fire from flint and how to track rabbit prints through the snow.
At seven, he could disarm a grown man with a well-timed strike to the wrist—something that surprised even Aldric.
And by eight, his form was solid, his balance nearly perfect, and the wooden sword felt like an extension of his hand.
But Aldric didn't just train his body.
Evenings were for stories—of ancient kings and quiet heroes, of loyalty and sacrifice. Aaron drank in every word, curling up by the hearth with a blanket and wide eyes.
"Why do knights protect people?" he asked once.
"Because they can," Aldric said simply. "And those who can… should."
Aaron never forgot that.
Though the village children played by the riverbanks, Aaron spent most of his time shadowing Aldric—chopping wood, cleaning gear, practicing drills, and helping mend old armor that still hung in the shed. There was a quiet intensity in him. A hunger to prove himself, though he never said it aloud.
The villagers noticed. They called him the little knight with fondness and a touch of amusement.
"He'll be a commander before he grows his first beard," Marta once laughed as Aaron tried to carry a shield twice his size across the yard.
Aldric said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
The blackthorn tree bloomed each spring, white blossoms nestled among the thorns, and Aaron always paused to look at it. He didn't know why he felt drawn to it—only that it seemed like a part of him. Fierce. Quiet. Waiting.
One late evening, after a long day of training, Aaron stood beneath that tree, wooden sword in hand.
"Will I ever be good enough?" he asked Aldric, not looking up.
Aldric stepped beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.
"You already are," he said. "But what you do with it… that's what matters."
Aaron nodded slowly.
And with that, the boy who came with the storm began to shape himself into a warrior.
Not for glory. Not for vengeance.
But because he could.