Destiney of the Sword God

Chapter 6 - Adventure Awaits

The morning sun filtered through the forest canopy, dappling the quiet glade with gentle gold. Rowan stirred from his bedroll, stretching limbs lately unburdened by morning's pains. Today marked his seventeenth name day - and the day his journey truly began.

As was his wont, he watched dawn light chase shadows from glade to forest's shrouded heart. But nostalgia found no foothold; his sword sang a sweeter song on morn's soft breeze. This was no day for looking back, nor lingering over what might have been. Fate beckoned down well-trodden winding paths, and his steps must not falter now.

Rising in a fluid motion, Rowan went through stretches and forms with fluid grace, steel flashing liquid as dawn lit dew. Each motion carried perfect control; poise distilled from ten thousand trials. Warriors twice his years could scarcely match such fluid lethality, let alone surpass its razor's edge.

Today, steel's kiss felt sweeter still against calloused palm. This was no final test of flesh tempered in solitude, but mastery's first steps beyond glade's bowered dance. What trials might await on roads winding ever westward, he dared not ponder – he only grips his hilt firmer and steeled his resolve even harder than folded metal. There would be time enough for wonderment in city lit by sunset's bleeding glories.

For now, his home's lone embrace yet lingered - oak's bowered canopy bowing farewell sadly on still morning airs. Rowan drank deep dew-fresh loam and leather, committing each sensation to depths where only memory might keep them. Soon this sacred glen would know he no longer survive in lonely dreams. But other paths called him now, winding ever onward towards destiny's next unveiling. Today was dawn. As the sun rose higher, Rowan shouldered his pack and turned west. His steps soon brought the forest's shrouded eaves giving way to familiar cottages crowding the village heart.

At the blacksmith's forge, stout Geralt worked steel under ringing hammer, sweat beading a bowed head. His back straightened at Rowan's approach, gruff features softening. "So, the day has come at last," he rumbled, setting down hammer to grasp a gnarled hand. "You've come far, boy. Farther than I dreamed that day you darkened my yard."

Pride swelled Rowan's chest to match the veteran's own. "Your teachings made it possible, sir. This land will never know a truer protector."

A bark of laughter escaped Geralt. "Well spoken, warrior. But a man grows in strange soils - and threats unseen plague wider fields than ours." His stern mien returned. "Stay vigilant. Let no drop of that blood go to waste."

With a solemn nod, Rowan took his leave of mentor who had carved him from green boy to tempered steel. Villagers bustled the square, pausing chores to call well-wishes; faces etched with all he fought to shield blurred behind a sheen. His steps were steady as he threaded the knot of families, children, tradesmen - all owing their ordered days to promise writ in scars upon his forearms, miles trod under steel-shoed feet. Each farewell sang bittersweet upon the breeze gusting his cheeks, now set only westward. This place would ever ring in his heart, as steel did, the winding road bore him from familiar rooftops into forest's green embrace once more, enshrouding him in dappled gloam. No backward glance disturbed the mantle of leaves - only straight shoulders and steady footfalls charting a new future unfolding with each westward pace. His village slept behind, the road awaited, guiding strides ever on. Filled with restless energy, Rowan's long strides ate the leagues. Though his pack bore sparse burdens, leather and steel were all this road demanded of him.

The trees became old companions as winding paths turned his boots east and west. He drank deep of the woodland's living breath - loam and growth and morning dew - letting it course like new wine through limbs enflamed with each mile stretched behind. By afternoon, his breathing remained light as dawn, sweat beading only slightly across a taut brow.