Kael's POV
Ashenvale stank of smoke, sweat, and desperation.
We rode through the crooked wooden gate just before sunset, and I got my first real look at what frontier life had to offer. The main street, if you could dignify it by the name, was earth pounded into mud by recent rain. The buildings leaned against each other like drunks, constructed from bits of whatever people had to hand. A forge was burning on the corner, but the blacksmith therein did not look even remotely like my father. The smith lacked three fingers on his left hand and had scars crisscrossing his face like a map of battles.
People strode the streets armed, swords, axes, even crude spears. No one smiled. No one looked relaxed. Every face had the same expression: suspicion mixed with exhaustion, the look of people who'd learned that survival meant never dropping one's guard.
"Stay close," my father muttered, his hand clenched on my shoulder.
We lived in a boarding house maintained by a woman named Martha who did not ask questions and demanded payment in advance. The room was barely large enough for a single bed and a chair, but my father said it would do until he was settled and able to earn enough to pay for a decent workroom.
That night, lying on the floor while my father took the bed, he'd insisted despite my protests, I listened to the sounds of Ashenvale. Shouting from a tavern three buildings down. The clang of metal on metal as the night watch changed shifts. Something howling in the distance, too close to be comfortable. And underneath it all, a tension that made my skin prickle.
This location wasn't secure. However, it was also beyond the immediate reach of the Church, beyond the judgment of people who'd known me before I became an Error.
Here, possibly, I might be someone else.
Morning came with cruel reality. My father went out during the day to the local forge, talking to merchants, attempting to gain employment. I stayed in our room as I was told, but boredom and curiosity finally got the better of me and I went to the window.
That's where I first saw him.
A boy, perhaps a year older than me, was in the courtyard below practicing sword drills. His form was clumsy, untaught, but he flung himself into each exercise with a wild enthusiasm. Golden hair shone in the sunlight, and even from my window, I could decipher the intensity of his blue eyes.
He practiced for hours upon hours, refusing to rest, refusing to give up even when exhaustion had him staggering. There was something admirable in that, something that drew me in despite my reservations.
My father returned that evening, his face grim.
"No luck?" I asked.
"They all have their connections here already, arrangements, agreements made long before we arrived." He collapsed onto the bed. "But I did hear something that could prove useful. There is a man named Garrick who runs a training yard on the east side of town. He takes students, teaches them combat and survival. It's not inexpensive, but he has a good reputation."
"Why are you telling me this?"
My father's eyes locked onto mine with an immeasurable look. "Because you need to know how to defend yourself, Kael. I am not going to be here forever. And in neighborhoods like these, being vulnerable will get you killed."
"But lessons cost money we don't have."
"I'll do it. Whatever it takes." Steel lined his voice. "You're going to learn to fight, to survive, to be strong enough so that no one can say you don't deserve to live."
There was something in his tone that tightened my chest. "Father…."
"No arguments. Tomorrow, we go to Garrick's yard."
I did not argue. What was I supposed to say? That I feared I would fail at this as well? That I feared my Error nature would infect any training I received? That I did not wish him to sacrifice more for a son the universe itself had rejected?
Instead, I just nodded and tried to sleep despite the fear churning in my stomach.
Garrick's practice yard was a large cleared space fenced in by wood. Inside, perhaps twenty students of various ages practiced a variety of disciplines, swordplay, archery, hand-to-hand combat, formation drills. A number of instructors moved among them, correcting stances and offering advice.
The man himself towered in the middle like a fleshed oak tree with scars. Garrick was a giant, a full six and a half feet tall, with arms as wide as tree trunks and a face that looked to have been carved from granite with a blunt chisel. Burn scars disfigured the left side of his neck, and his right eye was milky white from some long-past wound.
"You're the blacksmith," he said by way of no introduction when my father was in front of him. "Heard you were looking for work."
"I am. But first, I need to get my son into your training program."
Garrick's one good eye landed on me, and I was exposed under that gaze. It was like he could look through flesh and bone to whatever passed as my soul.
"He's young. Seven?"
"Yes."
"Most start at ten." Garrick circled me slowly, inspecting. "He's small for his age. Looks weak. No apparent talent." He paused. "Why would I waste my time?"
I expected my father to apologize, to plead my case. Instead, he met Garrick's gaze squarely.
"Because he has no Script."
The training yard went silent. Every student stopped in the middle of his exercise. Every instructor turned toward them. The force of their attention was like a physical weight.
Garrick's expression didn't change. "An Error."
"Yes."
"You know what that means. Scriptbeasts will be drawn to him. Having him here might endanger my other students. The Church might become aware of my yard for harboring him." Garrick crossed his massive arms. "Why would I risk that?"
"Because," my father said quietly, "he'll work harder than anyone here. He has to. Anybody with a Script has destiny on their side, they're guaranteed to reach levels of proficiency because it's written in their fate. Kael has no such promises. Anything he learns, any power he gains, will be through pure effort against a universe waiting for him to falter."
Garrick examined me for a long time. Then, surprisingly, he smiled. It was not a friendly smile.
"You're right about one thing, he'll have to work ten times harder than any Script-blessed student." He crouched to my level. "Boy, if I accept you, I'll push you past every limit. I'll make you bleed, cry, and beg to give up. Your training will be hell itself because anything less would be a death sentence. Can you handle that?"
I thought about the Ceremony, the village's rejection, the Scriptbeast that nearly killed me, every instant since I'd learned I was an Error. I thought about my father trading everything he owned to give me a chance.
"Yes," I said, and I meant it.
"We'll see." Garrick stood. "As for payment, blacksmith, I do need someone to maintain weapons and repair training equipment. Work for me, and the boy trains free. Deal?"
My father's relief was tangible. "Deal."
"Good. Boy, you start tomorrow at dawn. Be late and I'll assume you changed your mind." Garrick waved an arm to dismiss him. "Back to drills, everyone! You're not here to stare!"
As we left the yard, I saw the blond boy from the courtyard openly looking at me with curiosity. When our eyes met, he smiled, not with pity or horror, but with interest.
I didn't know his name yet. Didn't know he carried the Hero's Script, that he was destined for greatness while I was destined for nothing.
Did not realize then that a decade later, he would plunge a sword into my heart and call it justice.
For now, he was just another student at Garrick's yard. Just another boy trying to get stronger.
Another piece moving into position in a game we did not know we were playing.