Meanwhile—
The village moved as it always did.
Voices filled the streets. Merchants called out. Doors opened. Work began.
Nothing looked different.
But Asher noticed things most people didn't.
A man arguing louder than needed. Two boys pushing each other. Someone watching instead of stepping in. Small things.
But happening more often.
Asher stood near the edge of the square, watching.
He didn't like it. He didn't like the complacency of it all, how everyone and everything always felt the same.
Even more so because no one did anything about it.
After a moment, he pushed off the post and walked away.
By sunrise, he was already outside the village.
The fields stretched out, quiet and open.
This was where he preferred to be.
He picked up the wooden sword by the fence.
Turned it once in his hand.
Then stepped forward.
And swung.
The first strike was strong.
But wrong.
Too much force. Not enough control.
Asher frowned.
Reset.
Swung again.
Better.
Still not right.
"…Not like that."
He slowed down.
Adjusted his footing.
Tried again.
The morning passed like that.
Strike. Reset. Adjust. Repeat.
By midday, his arms burned. His hands stung.
He didn't stop.
"You're forcing it."
Asher froze.
He knew the voice.
Still, he turned.
Abner stood by the fence, watching.
His father didn't look impressed.
He rarely did.
Asher lowered the sword.
"…Then what am I supposed to do?"
Abner stepped forward.
"Stop trying to make it strong."
A pause.
"Make it right."
Asher frowned.
"That doesn't help."
Abner held out his hand.
"Give it here."
Asher handed him the sword.
Abner stepped into position.
No tension. No rush.
He swung.
Simple.
Clean.
No wasted motion.
He handed it back.
"You're strong enough."
A pause.
"That's not your problem."
Asher took the blade.
"…Then what is?"
Abner met his gaze.
"You don't understand what you're doing yet."
That stayed with him.
From that day on—
They trained.
Not formally.
Abner never said he would teach.
He just showed up.
Corrected.
Watched.
"Your footing is off."
"Too fast."
"You're thinking instead of moving."
Short. Direct.
Asher adjusted every time.
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks into months.
The movements changed.
Less force.
More control.
Less frustration.
More precision.
At home, things stayed simple.
Miriam noticed.
Of course she did.
"You're going out earlier," she said one morning.
"Yeah."
"You're training with him."
Asher nodded.
Miriam's expression softened slightly.
"…He hasn't done that in a long time."
Asher paused.
"…Why now?"
She looked at him.
"Because you started first."
That answer stayed.
By the time Asher turned sixteen—
The difference was clear.
The field hadn't changed.
He had.
He stepped forward.
Swung.
Clean.
Again.
Controlled.
Again.
Deliberate.
No wasted motion.
When he stopped—
The air settled.
"…Better."
Asher turned.
Abner stood there.
Watching.
"Still not right?" Asher asked.
Abner stepped closer.
"It's right enough."
That was approval.
Abner bent down, picked something up, and tossed it.
Asher caught it.
Unwrapped it.
A real sword.
Simple.
Balanced.
Different.
Abner met his gaze.
"Wood lets you be wrong."
A pause.
"Steel doesn't."
Asher looked down at the blade.
The weight felt real.
Final.
He tightened his grip.
For the first time—
It didn't feel like practice.
It felt like preparation.
Beyond the village—
Beyond the fields—
The twelve tribes stood divided across the land.
And without realizing it—
Asher had already begun walking toward them.