Chapter 2 THE WOLF AND THE CUB

Chapter Two – The Wolf and the Cub

The clang of steel echoed through Ironhold's training yard, though no true steel was drawn. Wooden swords cracked, shields rang hollow, and the laughter of soldiers mingled with the sharp bark of commands. For the men of Valorith, even peace was seasoned with practice, for Kaelor Ironblade allowed no rust to grow on their skills.

But this morning was different.

At the edge of the yard, Darian stood with his arms crossed, his wolf-fur cloak hanging from his shoulders, eyes fixed upon a boy who was circling the sand with determined steps. Aric.

Eight years had passed since the storm-born night of his birth, and the child had grown into a wiry, sharp-eyed youth. His hair was black as raven's wings, his frame lean but already marked with the promise of strength. Yet what struck all who looked upon him were his eyes - one molten-gold, burning with strange light, the other cold steel-grey, sharp and unyielding. They made even hardened warriors shift uneasily when the boy's gaze met theirs.

"Ready?" Darian rumbled, tossing a wooden sword toward him.

Aric caught it with quick hands, surprising in their precision. "Always, Uncle Darian."

The Wolf chuckled. He had never asked the boy to call him uncle, but the name had stuck from the time Aric had learned to speak. It warmed him more than he admitted.

"Good. Then show me what you've learned."

The boy squared his shoulders, lifted the wooden blade in both hands, and advanced. Darian raised his practice shield lazily, expecting to bat aside a few clumsy swings before the boy tired.

But the first blow made him blink.

Crack.

The strike jolted up Darian's arm with surprising force. The boy had no business swinging that hard, not at his age. He grunted and planted his feet more firmly.

Aric pressed forward, strikes coming in faster than Darian expected. He wasn't skilled yet - his footing was uneven, his angles too wide - but behind every swing was raw strength that no eight-year-old should possess. Each blow rang against the shield with a weight that made Darian's brow furrow deeper.

When at last the boy overextended, Darian swept his shield aside and tapped Aric firmly in the chest with his sword edge. The boy stumbled back, fell onto the sand, and sat there panting, cheeks flushed with effort.

Darian lowered his weapons slowly, staring down at him.

"That," he said, voice low with something between awe and unease, "was no child's strength."

Aric pushed himself up, dusting sand from his tunic. He grinned through his panting. "Did I make you proud?"

The question pierced Darian's chest. He looked into those mismatched eyes, saw innocence glowing there, and his heart twisted. For all the prophecy, for all the whispers of shadow, this was just a boy - eager, bright, desperate to prove himself to the father who loomed so large in his world.

"Aye," Darian said softly. "You made me proud, little wolf. More proud than you know."

He glanced across the yard where Kaelor himself stood, arms folded, watching. The Ironblade's face was unreadable, but his eyes glittered with something like satisfaction.

Darian turned back to the boy and crouched low, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Aric, remember this. Strength is a gift - but it is also a weight. One day, you'll carry more than this blade, more than even your father's name. And when that day comes..." He hesitated, words thick on his tongue. "...when that day comes, you may even be stronger than Kaelor himself."

Aric's eyes widened. "Stronger than Father?"

Darian smiled faintly, ruffling the boy's hair. "Perhaps. But never say I told you so, eh?"

The boy laughed, a bright, unburdened sound that rang across the yard like sunlight breaking through stormclouds.

But in Darian's chest, pride warred with unease. For if the boy was already this strong... what would he become when the shadow finally came for him?

The next morning, the training yard of Ironhold rang again with the sound of practice - but this time, it was no playful test.

Kaelor Ironblade stood in the center of the circle, clad not in armor but in simple linen, a wooden practice blade in hand. His frame was massive, shoulders broad as a fortress wall, every movement honed with the economy of a man who had never lost a duel. His eyes, steel and unyielding, fixed upon the boy standing across from him.

Aric gripped his own practice sword, sweat already dampening his brow.

"Again," Kaelor said, voice like stone grinding against stone.

Aric darted forward, swinging hard. Kaelor parried with a flick of his wrist, the boy's strike deflected as though it were nothing.

"Too wild. Your enemy will gut you before you recover. Again."

Aric steadied his stance, tried to remember Darian's tips, then lunged. Kaelor sidestepped, tapped the flat of his blade against the boy's ribs, forcing him to stumble.

"Too slow. Again."

The boy's teeth clenched, but he nodded. He refused to yield.

For hours they moved in circles, strike and parry, thrust and block. Aric's arms trembled, sweat streaming down his face, but each time he fell, he rose again. The guards who watched muttered among themselves - some in pity, others in admiration. The boy was only eight, yet he bore the weight of drills meant for men twice his age.

Finally, Kaelor struck Aric's blade aside and brought his own crashing down, stopping an inch from the boy's throat.

"Dead," he growled. "Again."

Aric's chest heaved, but he did not lower his weapon. He raised it once more, legs shaking beneath him.

And then, something shifted.

Aric feinted left, then pivoted, swinging low toward Kaelor's knee. The move was clumsy, but it was unexpected, and for the first time, Kaelor had to shift his footing to block.

A murmur rippled through the onlookers.

Kaelor's brows rose slightly. "Better."

He pressed forward now, blows raining down harder, faster, testing the boy's endurance. Each strike forced Aric back a step, sand spraying beneath his boots. Still the boy held his ground, eyes blazing - the steel-grey eye hard with determination, the golden one seeming almost to glow as though some hidden flame had sparked within it.

Finally, Kaelor ended the bout with a brutal clash that knocked the boy flat onto his back. Aric lay gasping in the dirt, arms spread, chest heaving.

Kaelor loomed over him, silent for a long moment. Then, to the astonishment of the gathered men, he extended his hand.

Aric grasped it, and Kaelor hauled him to his feet.

"You have your mother's fire," Kaelor said at last, voice low, almost grudging. "And my steel. One day, boy, you may be more than even I am."

Aric's lips parted in wonder. It was the closest thing to praise he had ever heard from his father.

But then Kaelor's eyes hardened once more. "Do not mistake me. That day is far off. And it will only come if you suffer, bleed, and break until there is nothing left in you but the blade. Do you understand?"

Aric nodded, breathless. "Yes, Father."

Kaelor rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. "Good. Because you will not be given greatness. You will earn it - or die."

From the edge of the yard, Mira the Seer watched in silence. She had said little since the boy's birth, but now her gaze lingered on him with something like sorrow. When Aric's golden eye caught the sunlight, she whispered beneath her breath so none could hear:

"Steel and flame... shadow and ruin. May the gods have mercy on you, child."

But Aric only grinned faintly, lifting his wooden sword again as if ready for another round, his spirit unbroken.

And Kaelor, for all his iron heart, allowed the faintest ghost of a smile to touch his lips.