Sword In The Hand

Lucas opened his eyes to the soft creak of wooden beams and the distant murmur of voices outside. The room was warm, filled with the scent of herbs, and sunlight trickled through the window. Sitting up, he felt his muscles still stiff, his body weak but intact. His mind was a blur, with only his name—Lucas—anchoring him to this world.

The door creaked open, and the woman who had spoken to him earlier stepped inside. She had short auburn hair, kind but sharp eyes, and wore light armor with a sword strapped to her waist.

"You're awake," she said, her voice calm and steady. "I was hoping you'd come to soon."

Lucas rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the confusion. "Where... where am I?"

The woman smiled gently. "You're in Elandor, a small outpost at the edge of the Darian Kingdom. My name is Melasa Harsing. I lead a group of mercenaries called the Red Blade. My team found you unconscious near the northern border. You were in pretty rough shape, but we got to you in time."

"Thank you," Lucas replied softly. He looked down, noticing the simple linen clothes he now wore instead of the rags from before. "But... I don't remember anything. I don't know how I got there. I don't know who I was before."

Melasa watched him closely, nodding. "Memory loss? That's tough, but we've seen it before. This world is dangerous, especially for someone like you—only 13 and already thrust into it."

"Thirteen?" Lucas mumbled, his thoughts scattered.

"Yes," Melasa replied gently. "We estimated your age based on your build and features. You're young, but you survived something. That counts for something too."

There was a quiet pause between them. Lucas couldn't make sense of his situation, but one thing was clear: he had no past to return to, only an uncertain future.

"Come with me," Melasa said after a moment. "A walk will do you good. You've been lying in bed for a couple of days now."

Lucas nodded, grateful for the offer. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and despite some lingering soreness, he managed to follow her out the door.

The bright sunlight hit him as they stepped outside, and Lucas took in his surroundings for the first time. The outpost was alive with activity. Men and women of all shapes and sizes moved about, some sparring with weapons, others tending to horses or repairing armor. It was bustling, full of energy and purpose.

But what struck Lucas most was the diversity. He saw not just humans, but towering orcs, slender elves with sharp ears, and even a dwarf with a long beard, grumbling as he hammered away at a forge.

"Who… who are all these people?" Lucas asked, eyes wide as they walked past a group of elves practicing archery.

Melasa chuckled. "Not just people, Lucas. Elandor's home to more than just humans. Elves, orcs, dwarves—you'll see many different species here. Each one with their own history and culture. It's the way of the world."

"Why are they all here together?" he asked, his curiosity growing.

"Mercenary life attracts all kinds," Melasa explained. "Most of us don't fit neatly into any one place, so we make our own. We fight together, live together, no matter where we come from. We're bound by our skills, not by our blood."

Lucas took it all in, fascinated. He had never seen anything like it, or at least not that he could remember. There was something almost magical about the way each person moved, their training precise, their weapons like extensions of themselves.

As they passed a training yard where several mercenaries sparred with swords and staffs, Lucas slowed to a stop, watching in awe. The way they moved—so graceful, so powerful—it was mesmerizing. His eyes locked onto a sparring match between a tall elf and a human fighter, their blades clashing in a dance of steel.

"You seem interested," Melasa said, noticing how Lucas's gaze lingered on the fighters. "Would you like to try?"

Lucas hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I… I don't know how, but I'd like to."

Before he could say more, a large figure approached them. It was a man with broad shoulders and a stern face, clad in chainmail with a longsword strapped to his back. His black hair was cropped short, and his eyes were as sharp as the blade he carried.

"Greil," Melasa called, gesturing toward him. "This is Lucas. He's interested in trying his hand at swordplay."

Greil glanced at Lucas, his expression unreadable. "He's just a boy," Greil grunted, though not unkindly. "You sure about this?"

Melasa gave a knowing smile. "He's got to start somewhere. Besides, he's got the look of someone who wants to learn."

Greil studied Lucas for a moment longer before he nodded. "Alright, kid. Let's see what you've got."

He handed Lucas a practice sword—a simple, wooden blade, heavy and crude, but functional. Lucas took it in both hands, feeling its weight. His fingers tightened around the hilt, a strange sense of familiarity stirring within him.

Greil took a stance across from him, his own practice sword at the ready. "Start by defending yourself. Let's see how you react."

Lucas barely had time to register the words before Greil swung his sword in a controlled arc. Instinctively, Lucas raised his weapon to block. The impact jolted his arms, but he held steady. Greil came at him again, and Lucas moved, his feet shifting into place as if he had done it before.

With each strike, Lucas found his movements becoming sharper, his reflexes quicker. It wasn't perfect—his footing was still unsure, and Greil's attacks were relentless—but something about the way the sword felt in his hand, the rhythm of the fight, made sense to him.

Greil's eyes narrowed in approval as he increased the tempo, testing Lucas further. Lucas blocked and dodged, his body reacting faster than his mind. He wasn't winning, but he was holding his own, and that was something.

After several minutes, Greil lowered his sword and stepped back. "Not bad, kid," he said, his tone gruff but impressed. "You've got some natural ability."

Lucas stood there, panting, his heart racing. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but his mind was spinning. How had he done that? The way he moved, the way he reacted—it felt like second nature, even though he had no memory of ever learning to fight.

"You've got potential," Greil continued. "But potential won't keep you alive out there. You need proper training. If you're serious about learning, we can train you."

Lucas looked down at the practice sword in his hand, his fingers still trembling slightly. He didn't understand what had just happened, but he knew one thing: he wanted to get better.

"I want to learn," Lucas said, his voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside him.

Melasa smiled softly. "Then you'll train with Greil from now on. It'll be hard work, but you've got the heart for it."

As the sun began to dip behind the horizon, casting long shadows over the training yard, Lucas looked out at the mercenaries practicing, their movements swift and sure. He didn't know who he had been or what his past held, but standing there with the sword in his hand, he felt a flicker of something new—purpose.