The horse beneath Adam heaved under him with labored breath, each one jostling his body like a sack of broken pottery. Adam had a festive night, from being chased by a pack of wolves, to facing down the Fenrir, and worst of all, surviving Isha's lecturing.
The herbalist's clinic was closed at the late hour, so Isha just hammered a note to expect a mauled Adam in the morning. Then, Adam had dozed off the rest of the way, his head slumped on Isha's shoulder.
When he pried his eyes open again, they were already near his shack. His muscles ached all over, as sleep threatened to take him in back again.
Isha trotted the horse to a stop, then hauled him up right. His body screamed in protest, before Isha interrupted his agony. "If you vomit on my boots," he warned, "I'll toss you back to the wolves."
Adam mustered a grin that felt more like a grimace. His retort faded into a wheeze—laughter stabbed his ribs like a dull knife. Behind him, the shack's door gaped open on broken hinges.
'Damn it, I forgot to lock the door again.'
Isha followed his eyes, another lecture ready to launch itself from his lips, but instead, a heavy, defeated sigh was all he breathed.
"Just get some rest for tonight." Isha looped an arm around Adam's waist, and helped him limp back into his broken home.
'Home, huh?' The word meant so little to Adam, now that both his parents were gone. Four walls and a roof that belonged to a ghost, his father's name written on the deed, his mother's scent long faded from the sheets.
Adam's boots kicked up dust as he staggered into the cabin—his cabin, if two rooms and a leaking roof could claim such a word. The air was thick with the musty scent of damp wood, soaked through with years of rain and left to dry in the sun. A cot sagged in the corner, its straw mattress permanently dented where he curled up each night. At the other corner of the room, an oval mirror reflected only shadows, its surface pocked with age yet perfectly functioned for his purposes. The wardrobe beside it held more dust than clothes, though, next to the kitchen's doorframe.
He collapsed onto the cot, its groan louder than his own. And looked up at Isha's slender figure lingering at the doorway, wondering when he would leave.
Isha answered his questioning look with one of his own. "Try not to croak before dawn." Arms crossed, with fingers drumming against his elbow.
A smirk tugged at Adam's lip. "Worried I'll haunt you?"
Isha snorted and stepped back, the door creaking shut behind him. His muffled warning chased the retreating hoof beats: "If I hear a whiff about you stepping foot toward that forest, the tournament's off."
Adam's chuckle on his bed morphed into a wince. Then he sat silently, listening to the nightly chorus of his shack. Water was still dripping from the leaking roof of the kitchen - a storage room for repugnant pelts and forgotten kills- and the window's rusted hinges squeaked, creating a blend of sounds that Adam had grown fond of.
Adam turned in his bed and faced a loose floorboard, where his father's journal was hidden. His only solace, his only inheritance, aside from the shack itself.
Adam's fingers traced the journal's cover, as he curled up under the covers. The leather of the journal was worn smooth, yet it held firm. He ran his fingers through the yellow, worn pages, and the Fenrir's yellow eye flashed behind his lids. He could still feel its breath behind on his neck, hear the crack of the tree branch as he'd fallen—
'Stop,' he wrenched the journal open with a snap, as if the sound could sever the memory. Several stances and ways to hold the sword, the mace, and even the bow were all written down in the journal. The scribbles were badly written, with words scattered all over the pages, and crude drawings that resembled a child's.
Adam had gone over the notes countless times, and he had adopted many useful tips on how to move his wrists, hips, and shoulders in a fight. The notebook that many would render as garbage was, in fact, Adam's greatest treasure.
One move in particular caught his eye today, it felt familiar, not from his practices, but like something he had seen in a dream -or nightmare- kind of familiar.
It was in the first few pages, smudged with what might've been ale or blood, a sketch of a figure lunging forward, blade arcing down in a feigned vertical slash before twisting into a horizontal strike.
A caption read: "incite them to parry, feign arrogance. Then bleed them dry."
Adam sat up straight, trying to conjure up a memory, then slumped back down in defeat. He kicked his feet up and shook his head, but came up with nothing.
After a few minutes of unfruitful thoughts, Adam felt his mind grow heavy, as fatigue slowly took him to sleep.
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 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 in his face. 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 like a gutter rat, 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 now?"
Anas winced at her tug, but his anger did not subside. "They provoked me, ganged up on 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 death chewed you up and spat you out. Get inside."
Adam smiled crookedly. This was going to be one hard story to explain.