City (2)

[Kingdom Of Joceus, City Square]

[Time: Morning]

[Location: Odergaard's Smithing Store]

CLANG!, CLANG!, CLANG!

The rhythmic clang of hammer on steel drew Elio towards a weathered storefront. Inside, flames flickered within a hulking forge, casting long shadows that danced with the movements of a massive, bearded figure.

The air was thick with the smells of hot metal and charcoal. This was a place of creation, and it called to something deep within him.

The dwarf blacksmith looked up as Elio hesitantly crossed the threshold, a low grunt replacing any greeting.

All around, swords hung shining and setting weapons made for warriors, not children. Elio's eyes kept returning to a single piece. A broadsword with a hilt of polished bone, its blade etched with faintly glowing runes.

"What's a squirt like you doing here?" The dwarf's voice boomed, startling Elio. He pointed wordlessly towards the sword.

The dwarf scoffed, then followed the direction of Elio's finger.

"Want that, do ya? It's not for the likes of you, boy."

A flicker of something like regret shadowed his face. "That blade… it's got a promise attached to it. A promise to a friend long gone that only someone worthy would inherit it."

Desperation flared in Elio's chest. He fumbled with his pouch, spilling its contents onto the worn counter. Gold, Silver and copper coins clattered, a pitiful offering in this hall of steel.

The dwarf blinked, and then his gruff features softened.

"Put your money away, kid. I get it, pretty things catch the eye."

He swept an arm towards the other weapons. "Pick anything here, and I'll cut the price for you. But that one…" He shook his head, "That one stays until the right hands come to claim it. But come back to me when you're a great swordsman, lad, and maybe then I might give it a second thought."

Elio's shoulders slumped slightly, but a new determination was igniting in his eyes. With a simple nod, he turned and left the shop, the clang of the forge fading with each step.

As he walked, the dwarf's words echoed in his mind. "Great swordsman?" he muttered, the words unfamiliar yet resonating within him.

The dwarf's challenge burned in his mind. Yet the path seemed long and filled with uncertainty. He was just a boy, small, untrained…

Elio's footsteps echoed hollowly on the cobblestones. 

"...haha!..."

"...haha!..."

Muffled whimpers and a burst of cruel laughter cut through his thoughts. He turned the corner and his stomach twisted. Three older boys had cornered a scrawny child against a wall, kicking and shoving him. One of them punctuated their taunts with sharp jabs, making the victim cringe.

"Please…stop," the child whimpered. "I didn't do nothing!"

"Let's see if your eyes bleed as easily as your nose," one of the bullies snarled, as metal flashed in his hand. A kitchen knife.

Elio didn't feel fear, not the way he had when facing the boar. Instead, there was a cold calculation in his eyes.

Lars's words echoed in his head as Elio recalled a memory,

"if a weapon's turned on you, run at all costs."

However, another memory surfaced in his thought process,

"Remember Elio... You only fight when it's equal."

His small fists weren't equal to a knife, but...a lesson twisted within his young mind. He was never allowed to hurt someone weaker than him, that was another of Lars's rules. So, it wasn't about hurting the bullies. It was about the knife.

Wordlessly, Elio marched straight into the alleyway, his blank stare fixed on the leader, the one with the weapon. The bullies were startled, their taunts dying away.

"What's this?" the leader drawled, "Playing hero, pipsqueak?"

Elio ignored the insult. "knife..." he said, his voice steady as stone.

"GET HIM!"

The bullies charged the moment he stepped between them and their prey. Their movements seemed clumsy, slow. He dodged their wild swings easily, his reflexes honed from countless sessions of training with Lars suddenly finding a new purpose. It was almost too simple.

His gaze remained fixed on the leader, the knife a beacon. They circled, and with a lunge, the bully jabbed the blade towards Elio's ribs.

He wasn't fast enough to grab the weapon, but instinct took over. He slapped the flat of the blade with surprising force, sending it skittering across the damp cobblestones.

The sudden absence of the knife threw them all off balance. The bullies hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty replacing their overwhelming confidence.

Yet, Elio stood frozen, a strange emptiness filling him. He'd completed his objective, the threat neutralized. But what next? Lars's lessons surged to the forefront of his head:

"Never beat anyone weaker than you." He wasn't supposed to fight back, not like this…

BASH!

A fist smashed into his jaw, snapping his head back. A flurry of kicks and punches followed. There was no skill involved on their part, just brutish rage.

Elio could stop them, his body knew how, but the lessons within him refused to obey. He curled defensively, letting the blows rain down. In a way, it was almost a relief. This pain, this was a punishment he understood.

STOMP, STOMP, STOMP,

The bullies scattered like rats, their curses fading into the distance. Footsteps – heavier, purposeful – replaced them.

"Must be a scuffle," a gruff voice grumbled.

"Think it's over there, by the alley."

Elio reacted instinctively. His battered body protested, but he shoved the whimpering child behind a dented garbage bin, hushing him with a single, sharp gesture. Rough voices echoed closer, their owners peering into the alleyway.

"Some commotion here, lads," one guard muttered. "Find the troublemakers."

Elio held his breath, pain flaring where a boot had connected with his ribs. Minutes stretched into an eternity before the guards grumbled and moved on. As their footsteps retreated, the child let out a shaky sigh.

"I'm so sorry," he blurted, scrambling out from the hiding spot, his large glasses askew. "This is all my fault, you shouldn't have…"

Elio cut him off, his voice rough. "It's okay."

The boy – scrawny, with wild black hair – looked at him, eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear. "You're hurt...lemme find someone to –"

"I'm fine," Elio insisted. Struggling to his feet, he winced, but stubbornly turned to leave.

The boy's voice held an unexpected firmness. "Wait! What's your name?"

Elio paused, then turned slightly. "Elio."

"Thank you, Elio." The boy spoke softly, yet with undeniable sincerity. "My name's Julius Arthur. I… I won't forget this."

Elio barely acknowledged the words. Each step towards home was an agony, his body full of bruises. Yet, as he limped along, a strange thought echoed in his head about the boy with the oddly formal name.

What Elio could see was different to any person he had met, That boy wasn't weak…not like him.