Chapter 38: Training.

Chapter 38: Chapter 38: Training.

"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better." — Samuel Beckett

The First Lesson

The pale, watery light of dawn had barely broken over the settlement when Riven pushed through the heavy wooden door of the Adventurers’ Guild training yard.

A bitter wind swept across the courtyard, carrying the sharp chill of early winter. A thin layer of frost covered the ground, and Riven’s breath escaped in small white clouds as he stepped inside.

The yard was empty.

Almost.

The rhythmic scraping of a broom against the stone steps broke the silence. Near the armory annex, Aiden leaned heavily on his wooden cane as he swept away a thin drift of overnight snow.

The old man paused when he heard the door close.

His single visible eye settled on Riven.

"You’re early."

Riven nodded. "You told me to be here in the morning."

"Didn’t say you had to come before sunrise."

Aiden gave a short grunt and returned to sweeping. Riven stood there for a moment, unsure whether he was supposed to wait or help.

"Well? Don’t just stand there."

Riven immediately walked over and picked up a second broom leaning against the wall.

Aiden glanced at him.

"Didn’t ask you to sweep."

"You looked like you could use the help."

For a moment, Aiden simply stared at him. Then he let out a quiet snort.

"Careful, boy. Keep talking like that, and I’ll start expecting you to think for yourself."

Riven said nothing.

They finished clearing the steps in silence. Once the snow had been pushed aside, Aiden tossed his broom against the wall and pointed toward a stack of heavy, iron banded wooden crates sitting beside the stable.

"Before we touch a blade, the training grounds don’t run themselves. Those crates need to be hauled into the storage shed. The central ring needs its gravel raked flat, and the blunt sparring staves need to be wiped down with oil so they don’t splinter in the frost."

He tapped his cane against the ground.

"Get to it."

Riven looked at the crates.

There were six of them, each large enough to reach his chest. Their iron bands were rusted, and their wooden sides were scratched from years of use.

He approached the nearest one and tried to lift it.

It barely moved.

Riven gritted his teeth and tried again, this time bending his knees and wrapping both arms around the sides. The crate rose a few inches before his injured shoulder protested.

Pain shot down his arm.

He immediately set it back down.

Aiden watched from beside the stable.

"Problem?"

"My shoulder."

"Then don’t be stupid with it."

Riven glanced at him.

"Use your legs. Keep the weight close to your body. And don’t try to lift more than you can handle."

Riven nodded and tried again.

This time, he managed to tilt the crate onto one edge. He shifted his grip, braced it against his thighs, and slowly dragged it toward the storage shed.

It was awkward and exhausting, but it worked.

The first crate took several minutes.

The second was no easier.

By the third, his hands were beginning to ache, and the wound in his right palm had started to sting beneath its bandage. He tried to ignore it, relying mostly on his left hand whenever possible.

Aiden said nothing.

He simply watched.

Riven couldn’t tell whether the old man was judging his work or waiting for him to make a mistake. Either way, he wasn’t about to complain.

The crates were eventually stacked inside the storage shed. Riven wiped his forehead with his sleeve before returning to the yard.

His arms felt heavy, and his shoulder throbbed with every movement.

He still had the gravel to rake.

The central training ring was a wide circle surrounded by wooden posts. Its surface was covered in loose gravel, which had been scattered by weeks of sparring. Riven took the rake and began pulling the stones back into place.

It was tedious work.

Every few minutes, he had to stop and adjust his grip as his palm began to hurt. His shoulder was still healing, and the repetitive motion made it ache more than he expected.

He slowed down, careful not to aggravate it further.

Aiden eventually spoke.

"You’re favoring your right side."

Riven glanced over.

"My shoulder still hurts."

"I know. I’ve got eyes."

Aiden tapped his cane against the ground.

"Don’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. If you injure it again, you’ll spend another week doing nothing but staring at the walls."

Riven lowered his gaze and continued raking.

Once the gravel was level, Aiden directed him toward the rack of wooden sparring staves.

The staves were worn from years of use. Some had chipped edges, while others had small cracks running along their length. Riven was instructed to wipe each one down with an oiled rag and set aside any that looked damaged.

He worked carefully, examining each stave before moving on to the next.

By the time he finished, nearly an hour had passed.

Riven stood beside the rack, breathing heavily. His muscles burned, and a thin layer of sweat had formed beneath his clothes despite the cold.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve and walked over to Aiden.

"Finished."

Aiden looked over the yard before giving a short nod.

"Good enough."

Riven waited.

He had done everything the old man asked. Now, he wanted to know when the actual training would begin.

Aiden seemed to understand.

"All right. Let’s see what you’ve learned on your own."

He reached toward the rack and pulled down two plain wooden practice staves. They were thick, heavy, and slightly longer than Riven’s arm.

Aiden tossed one toward him.

Riven instinctively reached out with his right hand.

Pain shot through his palm as his fingers closed around the wood. He nearly dropped it, catching it awkwardly against his chest before securing it with his left hand.

Aiden frowned.

"Still injured?"

"Mostly healed."

"That’s not what I asked."

Riven looked down at his bandaged palm.

"Yes."

"Then use your left hand for now. I don’t want you reopening that wound before we’ve even started."

Riven nodded.

Aiden tapped his own stave against the frozen dirt.

"First, put that sword away."

Riven glanced at his short sword, which hung at his side.

"Why?"

"Because you’re not ready for it."

Riven hesitated before unbuckling the weapon. He placed it carefully beside his spatial storage bag, making sure neither would be stepped on.

Aiden watched him.

"Until I say otherwise, you don’t touch real steel. Real steel forgives sloppy technique by cutting you open. Wood just leaves bruises."

He paused.

"And you’re going to have plenty of those by the time I’m done with you."

Riven tightened his grip on the wooden stave.

"Understood."

"Good. Now, assume your stance."

Riven stepped forward.

He spread his feet apart, bent his knees slightly, and held the stave in front of himself. It was the same stance he had practiced during his two weeks alone in the training yard.

He thought it looked reasonable.

Aiden disagreed.

The old man let out a dry, hacking laugh.

"Gods, that’s terrible."

Riven frowned but didn’t respond.

Aiden approached him, studying his posture.

"Your feet are too far apart. You’re stiff as a fence post, and you’re leaning forward like you’re trying to fall over."

He tapped Riven’s front foot with his stave.

"Move this one."

Riven adjusted his stance.

"Not that much."

He moved it back.

"Now your other foot."

Riven shifted again.

Aiden sighed.

"Do you have any idea what you’re doing?"

"No."

"At least you’re honest."

Aiden stepped back and raised his own stave.

"Watch."

He demonstrated the stance slowly. His feet were positioned at an angle, his knees slightly bent, and his weight distributed evenly. His upper body remained relaxed, with his weapon held comfortably in front of him.

Even with his cane leaning against a nearby post, he looked balanced.

"Your stance needs to let you move in any direction. If your weight is too far forward, you can’t retreat quickly. If it’s too far back, you can’t advance without wasting time."

Aiden shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"You’re not planting yourself in the ground. You’re preparing to move."

Riven studied him carefully.

He tried to copy the stance.

Aiden walked around him, occasionally tapping his feet into position with the end of his stave.

"Relax your shoulders."

Riven lowered them.

"Not that much. You’re holding a weapon, not taking a nap."

Riven adjusted again.

"Better."

For the first time that morning, Aiden seemed somewhat satisfied.

"Now, let’s see if you can keep it."

He raised his stave.

Riven tightened his grip.

"Come at me."

Riven hesitated.

"Well?"

Riven stepped forward and swung.

His attack was clumsy and slow. He put too much strength into his arms, leaving his feet behind. The wooden stave cut through the cold air and missed Aiden by a wide margin.

Aiden didn’t even bother moving his feet.

"Terrible."

Riven pulled his weapon back.

"Again."

He tried another swing, this time aiming for Aiden’s shoulder.

The veteran simply stepped to the side.

Riven’s momentum carried him forward, and he struggled to regain his balance.

Before he could recover, Aiden’s stave struck him lightly across the back.

"Dead."

Riven turned around.

Aiden shook his head.

"You’ve got no balance. You swing with your arms and forget the rest of your body. If you miss, you’re practically begging someone to hit you."

Riven looked down at his feet.

He hadn’t noticed how much he leaned forward when attacking.

"Again," Aiden ordered.

Riven tried to correct his stance before swinging.

This time, he moved more cautiously. He kept his feet beneath him and tried not to lean too far forward.

His attack was slower, but he managed to recover his balance.

Aiden blocked the strike with a short movement of his stave.

"Better. Still awful, but better."

Riven barely had time to register the comment before Aiden’s weapon swept toward his legs.

He tried to step backward.

Too late.

The stave clipped his right ankle and struck the back of his knee. His leg buckled, and his balance disappeared.

Thud.

Riven hit the frozen ground hard.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. His wooden stave clattered into the dirt, and pain flared through his recovering shoulder.

For several seconds, he could do nothing but lie there and gasp.

Aiden stood over him.

"Terrible."

Riven slowly rolled onto his side.

"Your feet were locked like fence posts. You leaned your weight onto your front leg, meaning the second I touched you, your own momentum put you on your back."

He pointed toward Riven’s legs.

"If that had been an orc’s club instead of a wooden stick, your skull would be split open right now."

Riven pushed himself up onto his elbows.

His shoulder throbbed from the impact. He could feel the old injury protesting, and his right palm stung where the bandage had shifted.

He wanted to sit there for a moment.

Instead, he forced himself to his feet.

Aiden watched without offering a hand.

"Are you going to complain?"

"No."

"Are you going to tell me you weren’t ready?"

"No."

"Then pick up your weapon."

Riven bent down and retrieved the stave.

His fingers tightened around the wooden handle.

He returned to his starting position.

Aiden’s single eye narrowed slightly.

Riven, however, seemed more concerned with correcting his mistakes than with the pain.

Aiden didn’t praise him.

Not yet.

"Again."

Riven adjusted his feet.

This time, he tried to keep his weight centered. He bent his knees and loosened his shoulders, remembering Aiden’s instructions.

The veteran raised his stave.

Riven watched his movements closely.

He knew he was still far too slow. He also knew that he couldn’t rely on strength alone. His body was small, and even a weak adult could overpower him if he made the wrong move.

He needed to learn how to use what little strength he had.

Aiden stepped forward.

Riven tried to react.

The old man’s stave moved toward his weapon, forcing him to shift his grip. Riven stumbled but managed to remain standing.

Aiden stopped.

"Hm."

Riven looked up.

"What’s wrong?"

"Nothing. You didn’t fall."

It wasn’t much of a compliment, but Riven accepted it.

Aiden lowered his stave.

"That’s enough for now."

Riven blinked.

"Already?"

"Your shoulder is shaking, your feet are all over the place, and you’re breathing like you’ve run halfway across the kingdom."

Riven glanced down at his hands. They were trembling slightly.

He hadn’t noticed.

Aiden retrieved his cane and leaned against it.

"Tomorrow, we’ll work on your footwork. Until then, remember what I told you. Keep your balance. Don’t swing with your arms alone, and stop trying to force every movement."

Riven nodded.

"Understood."

"Good. Now put those staves away and clean the rack. You’ve still got work to do."

Riven looked at the wooden staves in his hands.

He had imagined that learning swordsmanship would involve more fighting. Perhaps he had expected Aiden to show him a few techniques he could practice on his own.

Instead, he had spent most of the morning carrying crates, raking gravel, and getting knocked onto his back.

But he had learned.

His stance was terrible. His balance was worse. And even when he tried to attack, he left himself wide open.

It was frustrating.

Still, for the first time since arriving in the settlement, someone was actually teaching him.

Riven returned the staves to the rack and began cleaning up the remaining equipment.

His shoulder hurt, and his legs were already sore. He knew he would probably feel worse tomorrow.

But he didn’t mind.

He had spent too long fighting without knowing what he was doing.

Now, he finally had a chance to learn.

And he intended to make the most of it.