My bald head bumps against Laura’s a few times during the night. Sharing a single pillow is tough, but it’s still better than resting against the cold ground or leaning on a brick wall. Laura seems to handle it better than I do.

After a few middle-of-the-night complaints about my snoring, we both wake up feeling surprisingly refreshed. The muscle soreness has largely faded, and my blisters have mostly healed. The new calluses forming on my hands should protect me from further damage.

I haven’t had much time for Red Water training, but it seems coating my fingers with it has accelerated the healing process. I can’t help but wonder what other uses I might discover for it.

Thirty milliliters feels like a lot now, and my dexterity has improved noticeably. Instead of coating my hand in a uniform layer, I’ve been applying it in patches, saving volume while honing my control.

Instead of the usual rhythmic banging of a hammer, this morning greets us with peaceful silence. Old man Henrik let us sleep in today—and Laura still has the gall to say she doesn’t like him.

He doesn’t greet us directly, instead focusing on a book under the morning sun. He’s dragged his personal chair outside to enjoy the weather, it seems.

“Sleep well, kids?” he asks, barely glancing up. “We’re doing something different today.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and we don’t ask. The rules, while unspoken, are simple: don’t ask stupid questions, and do what he says.

I’ve learned to follow Henrik’s lead, at least somewhat. While I still occasionally misplace his tools or smash my thumb with a hammer, the hard labor has grown on me.

He yells at me often, though it’s hard to discern his tone. His scolding is sometimes punctuated by a pat on the back or a subtle nod. Whatever he says, his expression rarely changes.

Hours pass, and the ingot we’ve been hammering begins to take the shape of a sword. But why? No one who visits here has requested weapons. Is he doing this just for fun?

More time passes, and the sword begins to take shape nicely. It’s on the larger side—I believe the term is longsword. With the addition of a cross guard, a leather-wrapped handle, and a rounded pommel, it’s almost complete.

Henrik hands it to me and points toward the grinder.

“A sword’s greatest strength is versatility,” he says. “It’s not a weapon you go to war with, but a tool you use to defend yourself.”

I glance up at Henrik, unsure of where he’s going with this. Before I can think of anything to say, he heads inside, leaving me alone until Laura returns from wherever she wandered off to.

“Swords are more complicated than they look,” I say when she arrives. “I never knew they’re thicker at the base and gradually thin toward the tip. He told me to make it sharper as I go up.”

“Were there no swords in your world?” she asks, tilting her head.

“There were,” I reply, pausing for a moment. “A couple hundred years ago.”

Henrik returns shortly after, interrupting our conversation and carrying a sword of his own. “Come, lad, I’ll show you,” he says, his voice as commanding as ever.

Feeling a mix of curiosity and apprehension, I grab the sword I’ve been working on and follow him into the yard. He stops, standing firmly before me, and pulls his sword from its scabbard with a practiced motion.

Huh?

Without hesitation, Henrik charges at me, his sword raised. Instinctively, I raise my own to block him, panic surging through me.

“Shouldn’t sparring be done with practice swords?” I shout, stumbling backward.

“This is a practice sword,” he replies, lunging forward again.

“Mine isn’t! What if I cut you?” I plead, my grip tightening on the hilt.

He scoffs, then bursts into laughter. “If you manage to hit me, lad, I’ll hand over everything I own to you,” he says, grinning as he circles me.

“I’ll get started with lunch,” Laura calls from the sidelines.

Her voice distracts me for a split second—long enough for Henrik to land a sharp blow on my hand. I yelp, dropping the sword as the stinging pain shoots through my fingers. Even though the blade is blunt, it hurts.

“Pay attention, lad,” Henrik scolds, his tone firm. “If this were a real sword, you’d be short four fingers by now.”

“Unless you’re a lunatic, a fight should be avoided at all costs, lad,” Henrik says, his tone as steady as his stance.

I concentrate on deflecting his attacks, too focused to come up with a comment or question. His words continue, but so do his strikes—faster and more relentless with each passing moment.

“When you do find yourself in a duel, focus on not getting hit, rather than hitting,” he advises, punctuating his statement with a well-aimed swing that I barely block.

“Don’t take risks, I got it,” I manage to gasp out between parries.

“You have a gift that I was unfortunately not blessed with, lad. An advantage few possess,” Henrik says, landing a sharp blow to my side.

“I don’t feel very blessed right now,” I reply, wincing as I grab my ribs.

He stops mid-strike, pointing his sword directly at me. His face, as always, remains unreadable. Without a word, he stretches out his arm to full length, sword in hand. Naturally, I do the same, mimicking his motion.

He steps toward me slowly, his arm still outstretched. I remain in place, mirroring his posture. As he closes the distance, my sword’s tip stops just an inch from his forehead, while his blade is still far from reaching me.

“You’re as tall as a tree and built like one too,” he says, his tone even but firm. “Between two opponents of equal skill, size becomes the deciding factor. With arms as long as yours, lad, you’d make an excellent swordsman.”

For the first time, Henrik smiles—and so do I. A rare moment between us.

“Don’t drop your guard!” he suddenly yells, striking my thigh with the flat of his blade. I yelp, stumbling slightly as the sting spreads through my leg.

“A tree is solid and strong. This boy, however, is on the softer side,” an unfamiliar voice calls out, cutting through the moment.

I turn around, clutching my thigh and sucking in air through gritted teeth. Standing a few steps away is a tall man dressed in a gambeson and sturdy boots. He watches me with a sly smile, his arms crossed casually.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asks, his tone light but probing.

“Steponas,” I manage to say between short, labored breaths.

“Steponas,” the man says, eyeing me up and down. “If you lost all that blubber and gained some muscle, I could see it happening.” He smirks before turning to Henrik. “So, how much to take this boy off your hands?”

“He’s not for sale,” Henrik replies gruffly.

Both men burst into laughter, their booming voices filling the yard. Then, to my surprise, they shake hands like old friends. It’s strange to see Henrik so at ease—he’s not exactly the sociable type.

“I’m Hubbert,” the man says, offering me a handshake. His grip is firm, his smile self-assured. “I can see Henrik’s taken a liking to you.”

“Really now?” I reply, eyeing Henrik skeptically. The memory of today’s bruises and tomorrow’s inevitable soreness is enough to make me doubt that.

“I want to commission a few things from you,” Hubbert says, turning back to Henrik. “Let’s head inside.”