preparation

One day, Eldon sat by the river, staring at his reflection. He barely recognized himself anymore. The scars, the muscles, the way his eyes now seemed to shine faintly even in the dimmest light—it was as though he'd become someone else entirely.

He gripped the cane, feeling the weight of Garrick's trust in him. He had mastered its forms, but he knew he had barely scratched the surface of what it meant to wield such a weapon—or such power.

"This village isn't my world," he muttered to himself, standing and twirling the cane before slamming it into the ground. "There's more out there. And I'm going to find it."

With that, he resumed his training, the storm in his spirit as unrelenting as the one raging in the skies above him.

The morning air was sharp, crisp with the promise of another long day. I didn't mind. The grind had become a ritual for me, a constant reminder that I could endure.

I swung my legs off the cot, bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor of my ramshackle shed. Calling it a house would've been an insult to houses everywhere. But it was mine. A corner of the world where no one could bother me unless they wanted a rock hurled at their head. And lately, that rock had been hovering in midair, which made the villagers keep their distance.

My fingers brushed against the scar that ran down my forearm, a souvenir from one of the boars I'd wrestled last year. Not the prettiest memory, but at least it shut the butcher up when he said I wasn't strong enough to bring down one of his Boars. He still charged me for the meat, though. Typical.

I leaned back on the cot, staring at the ceiling where I'd carved little designs to pass the time. My favorite was a crude sketch of Garrick's face, complete with a scowl that could scare a troll. "Keep training, kid," I muttered to myself, imitating his gravelly voice. "You've got potential, but you're not ready."

Not ready. Those words burned even now. Three years of breaking my body and spirit, and they still echoed in my head.

With a sigh, I stood, grabbing my cane from where it rested against the wall. My fingers traced the intricate carvings along its shaft. Garrick had called it "a relic of a relic," something passed down in his family to train children. To me, it was a lifeline. A reminder that someone, somewhere, believed in me.

I turned to the corner of my little workshop. It wasn't much, just a small table covered in scraps of metal, springs, and cogs I'd scavenged from the occasional traveling merchant or abandoned wagon. It was, cluttered with scraps of my tinkering—old springs, tools, pieces of metal I'd salvaged from the blacksmith's refuse. That's where my latest masterpiece waited: a wrist-mounted grappling hook.

It had taken months of trial and error—and more than a few singed fingers—but I'd finally gotten it to work. The mechanism was crude, but it got the job done. A small spring-loaded hook sat nestled in the device, attached to a coil of tightly wound cord. The trigger was built into the wrist strap, which was reinforced with leather I'd scavenged from an old saddle.

"Not bad," I muttered, strapping it on. I gave the trigger a quick squeeze, and the hook shot out, embedding itself into a wooden beam on the ceiling. With a yank, I retracted it, the hook snapping back into place with a satisfying clink.

I couldn't help but grin. "Who needs a ladder when you've got ingenuity?"

Everything about this place spoke of my efforts, my struggles to prepare for what lay ahead.

I'd been planning this journey for months. Each odd job, each task the villagers threw at me, had gone toward my savings. The pay wasn't much—mostly scraps of coin or food—but I was careful. I'd traded wisely, striking deals for what I couldn't earn outright. It was enough. I had ample supplies for the road, more than most would expect from someone in my position.

Pulling on my worn leather boots and wrapping a threadbare cloak over my shoulders, I slung a small satchel across my chest. Inside were the essentials: dried meat, a flask of water, and a few tools I never left home without. The villagers could mock me all they wanted, but when their carts broke down or their plows needed fixing, who did they come crawling to? That's right—me.

But none of that mattered not Today....Today was about tying up loose ends.

I unfurled the list I'd written, the ink faint from overuse but still legible:

• Food: Dried meat, oatcakes, hard cheese, and a pouch of dried fruits and nuts. Enough to last weeks if rationed properly.

• Water: My waterskin was sturdy and full, with plans to refill from streams along the way.

• Clothing: Layers packed neatly—an extra shirt, trousers, and socks for the colder nights.

• Tools: A knife, flint, sewing kit, and rope. Basics for survival.

• Bedding: A wool blanket I'd bartered for at the market, worn but warm.

• Protection: The cane Garrick had left me, its hidden forms ready to defend if necessary.

I worked quickly, packing everything into the cloth sack I'd prepared. Outside, the village was stirring to life. The chatter of merchants setting up their stalls, the bleating of goats, and the clatter of carts rolling along the dirt streets filled the air.

Grabbing the cane again, I twirled it absently as I stepped out into the daylight. The village stretched before me, small and drab, the kind of place people didn't leave unless they were carried out in a box.

Not me. Not anymore.

Three years of blood, sweat, and isolation had turned me into something more. Stronger. Smarter. Hungrier. I wasn't meant to rot away here, trading my life for scraps of coin and disdainful glances.