His mind drifted somewhere else, to a nightmare he was all so used to, on a ship with many armored knights, but two of them stood out.

One was wearing golden armor, with a smile that resembled the Fenrir’s, splitting his face like a jagged chasm. The other had his back turned to him, with a single sword held firm in his hand, and light leather armor just like Adam’s. The swordsman was blond, with broad shoulders. He stood tall as he faced the horde of knights, with the golden one leading them.

The knights talked incomprehensible words. But at one point, they got heated, and the golden knight ordered the others to attack the lone swordsman.

Adam’s breath caught.  He’d seen this happen before.

The swordsman lunged forward, his sword flashing gold under the torchlight, two Valoran knights crumpling before they’d even registered the cut. The golden knight’s disturbing smile faltered for a moment.

The move was executed perfectly, as if the swordsman had created it himself. No wasted movements, no hesitation. The way the sword moved was mesmerizing for Adam.

The nightmare continued, with the golden knight morphing into the Fenrir, and the knights that followed turning into wolves.

The man fought hard, taking down many wolves in his wake, but Adam could not see the end of the battle. He flew back, out of the ship, and into the dark waters.

‘Row, Adam, Row.’ Tammer’s voice echoed in his mind.

Adam woke up screaming in horror, as he reached to grab the air over his cot with one hand while clutching his notebook with the other.

The sun was already up, its rays illuminating his room while the candle near his bed stood melted on its side.

Adam sat straight, sweat drenching him from head to toe, while his mind raced with thoughts.

‘Father died that night.’ The journal trembled in his hands. What he held was not just some sketch book; it was a relic of the man who’d once carved through his enemies.  A man whom he had lost.

He opened the page he was thinking over last night, and dragged a fingertip over the sketch. The paper was brittle, but the ink still burned.

Adam vowed to master everything in this book, he would revive his father’s legacy. And the tournament was just the beginning.

He tucked the notebook back in its crack, under the floorboard, and clenched his fist in determination.

Then his ribs snarled, and reality crashed back. “Ouch”

He rolled upright, biting back a groan. He had a long run to make, back to Aram.

Outside, Adam started stretching, as the distant town started to wake up. His run started as a limp, but by the time he reached the town gates, he had already forced his spine straight.

He crossed the northern path, passing by the market stalls, his boots squelching with every step over the mud.

Many avoided him as he passed. Some baker’s wife even closed the vendor window as he passed. But many others openly greeted him with warmth.

Adam cared for neither.

He passed by the tournament grounds as his pace slowed, and saw the people erecting clan banners around the space. His blood boiled with excitement at the scene. He was going to prove himself here. He was going to revive his father’s legacy.

He then passed by a group of boys limping away from the herbalist’s clinic. Weird, he thought to himself, given that none of them were bandaged.

By the time he reached the clinic, he was drenched in sweat. He checked under his armpit before going in the door, and winced from the smell.

A chicken darted out the window to his right, and his eyes went wide, before it took him to the muddy ground with it.

Adam cursed, kicking the chicken away in frustration. He already looked in the dumps, now he looked like a beggar at the herbalist’s door.

Adam picked himself up, and peeked from the window in shame. Inside, two people were in a heated debate. Anas and Aya, Uncle Kareem’s children.

Aya, the younger sister, was fourteen years old, only a few months younger than Adam, with a sharp tongue and wit to boast. She was a tall, slender girl with clear blue eyes and a sharp, stern look for someone her age. With pitch black hair that was cut short and neatly parted to the side.

There was a certain vibe to Aya; she looked confident in her speech, but also carried herself with a dignity that would put any lady to shame.

Anas - her brother- on the other hand, looked nothing dignified. He was sitting on a bench, shirtless, shoulders bulging with muscles, with an ice packet pressed to his shoulder, and spoke with a deep voice that didn’t fit a sixteen-year-old.

 “Oh, so now it’s my fault the three of them thought I was an easy target,” Anas exclaimed with rage.

“What? No! But you could have brought them here with you.” Aya retorted with a calm voice, as she tightened a bandage around his ankle. “Who is going to treat the poor boys’ bruises.

Anas winced at her tug, but his anger did not subside. “They ganged up on me, provoked me, and one of them even struck my shoulder with a log!” he looked at his sister incredulously, “and you expect me to drag them to my house?”

A door suddenly slammed open. Kareem stood framed in its threshold, his usually calm face ashen. His eyes swept the room—past Anas’s bruises, past Aya’s raised brow—and locked onto the window where Adam crouched, chicken feathers in his hair.

Kareem pointed a trembling finger at Adam. A feather drifted lazily from Adam’s scalp. "That was today’s lunch." Adam froze, then realized the old man was looking past him. And hurriedly looked behind.

The plucked chicken, the same one that muddied him, strutted across the street, clucking triumphantly.

Anas burst into laughter, then howled as Aya "accidentally" jabbed his wounded shoulder. "Sorry," she lied. "Hand slipped."

The pair’s father massaged his temples. “Adam. Isha left a message to expect you.” He gestured for him to come inside, then his gaze dropped to the mud seeping through Adam’s tunic. “You look like you have a story to tell, come in.”

Adam smiled crookedly. This was going to be a hard one to explain.