Destiney of the Sword God

Chapter 2 - Solitary Training

Rowan awoke to another grey morning. The events of the job ceremony continued to weigh heavily on his mind as he listlessly chewed yesterday's stale bread. What purpose did he have without a role? Each day blended into the next in a haze of formless routine.

He dragged himself outside, pausing to lean against the rough bark of an aging oak. The village bustled as usual below, but from this perch it all seemed so small. Adults went about their duties with cheerful efficiency while Rowan remained lost and drifting. A pair of young boys sparred nearby, laughing and taunting one another in mimic battles. Once that might've brought him joy, but now only dug at old wounds.

That eve, he sat alone on the hilltop watching the sun's final rays fade beyond distant forest borders. Out there in the gathering dusk, what mysteries lay waiting? What deeds remained for him if not this? A familiar figure broke his lonely reverie, approaching with a gentle smile. "Elia," he sighed, finding solace in her presence as the first stars kindled above them. "This moping doesn't suit you, Rowan," said Elia gently. "You were meant for greater things than self-pity."

Rowan gazed glumly at the tree line, silvered by moonlight. "How can there be more, without purpose or title?"

Elia took his hands. "You find your own purpose, silly. Remember how we'd play-battle with wooden swords? You were just as fierce a dragon slayer then as any of the boys, title or no." A hint of memory's smile tugged at Rowan's cheeks. "You always loved that game most of all."

"Think of how you'd guide the blade, how your body moved," Elia continued. "I've seen you watch Geralt drill the village men, haven't I? You have a warrior's soul, Rowan - follow it. Let the sword become your calling and show all who jeered what you can truly be."

Her words struck deep as the gathering stars. A purpose lay not in another's granting but within - forged by his own hand and spirit. Rowan met Elia's eyes, filled with new hope and resolve. "Teach me to fight. I will walk the path to knighthood and prove myself protector of this village!" Rowan nodded, determination stealing into his eyes. "I will train until my hands know the sword better than any. But who would take a title less boy as student?"

Elia smiled knowingly. "Geralt is always searching for those with heart over pedigree. I'll arrange your introduction tomorrow."

With Elia's support kindling his spirit, restless energy replaced despair's dull weight through the night. At dawn's first light, Rowan rose and made for the village green, where men gathered each morn for drill. There, amid barking instructions and clashing wooden blades, stood weathered Sergeant Geralt, puttering about in distant memory of wars' end. Rowan watched, enrapt, drinking in each parry and lunge. This would be his calling.

"A fire burns in that one," remarked Geralt, following Rowan's stare. "Fetch him to me, would you?" Heart pounding, Rowan approached, desperate to prove himself worthy of training, though lacking title or coin. Before him spread unknown lengths of toil and practice - but each step brought closer his vowed protection of this land. His destiny was primed to begin. Rowan approached the grizzled veteran, summoning his courage. "Excuse me, sir, but might I beg a favor?"

Geralt eyed the uncertain boy. "What is it, then? Speak up."

"I wish to learn the blade," Rowan said, hoping to zeal his tempered youthful tremors. "But I lack resources and renown. If you'd grant me lessons, I vow to give all in training."

At that, Geralt threw back his head and laughed, sad and deeply. "Many, say the same, lad, and few see it through. What makes you any different?"

Elia stepped forward then, laying a hand on Rowan's shoulder. "This one has spirit to spare," she insisted. "And a duty to fulfill, though his path lies shrouded. I ask you train him as my favor, Geralt - his heart will not steer him wrong."