Page 112 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

Orzen snorted. “Help yourself, I guess.”

With the pack fixed, he pulled out his whetstone. None of his blades needed it, but he’d be damned if he was going to sit there and stare at the dirt.

“Ooh, are you going to sharpen your sword?” Tommick stretched on his toes. “I’m gonna watch.”

“Right.” Orzen laid the sword across his lap. “It’s sharp, so maybe you step back a bit.” Tommick ignored the hint, plopping down cross-legged in front of him, chin in his hands, staring up like he was about to learn a knight’s secret.

Orzen blinked.

Tommick blinked back.

“New plan,” Orzen said, tossing the whetstone back into the pack. “How do you feel about learning to defend yourself?”

“Learn how to kill monsters?” Tommick’s eyes lit up like Orzen had offered cake for breakfast. “Do I get to use your sword?”

Orzen barked a laugh. “Absolutely not. It’s three times bigger than you.” The boy’s face fell, so Orzen lifted a hand. “You don’t start with real blades. Go grab some sticks—sturdy ones. Something you can hold without falling over.”

Tommick was gone before he’d finished speaking, darting to the clearing’s edge but careful not to cross into the trees. He came back hauling a branch that could’ve served as a battering ram, with a smaller stick tucked into the back of his pants like a secret backup weapon.

“Kid…” Orzen’s lips twitched. He shook his head. “All right. That one’s mine.”

Tommick sighed but dropped the branch at Orzen’s boots. He drew the smaller stick with both hands, holding it like he’d been training for this moment all his life.

“Not yet,” Orzen said.

The kid mistook him for a knight. Might as well teach him like one. Not that Orzen really knew what that was. He wasn’t some Dawnblade in shining armor. He was simply a man with too much undisciplined violence in his past. He wouldn’t pass that onto someone else.

“First, you take the oath.” Orzen nodded at him. Tommick frowned but obeyed, tossing the stick down and clasping his hands together, posture deadly serious. “Raise your hand.”

Tommick’s arm shot up so fast it nearly tipped him over. Orzen bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He didn’t want to crush the kid’s spirit, but it was hard to fight the bubble of amusement pressing against his chest.

“Right. Repeat after me. I will fight with honor.”

Tommick’s voice rang out, high and fierce as he repeated the words. With a grunt, Garin sputtered awake. Silas watched silently—knife paused mid-shave, eyes intense but unreadable.

Orzen met the look and raised his voice. “In defense of others who cannot fight for themselves. I will never raise a blade against the weak or needy. This is my vow.” Tommick repeated each line, careful with every word, like he understood how important it was.

And it was important. Orzen wasn’t about to teach a child violence for violence’s sake. He’d seen that. Lived it. He wasn’t passing that poison on—not to this boy. He looked across the clearing at Silas, smiling enough to make it a dare. The man’s flat stare didn’t waver—contempt narrowing into calculation.

Good. Let him see.

He tipped his chin at the dropped stick, and Tommick scooped it up again, grip firmer this time. Orzen hefted his own branch—light compared to his sword, but similar in length. A quick snap against his boot broke the tip clean, so it wouldn’t drag.

They started simple: advance, thrust, dodge, retreat.

Tommick stumbled at first, his feet tangling, but he listened. He learned. Orzen’s corrections were few and precise—a tap to the shoulder, a shift of his hips, a quiet “again.” The boy’s instinct was to flail, swinging with all the strength his small arms could muster, but Orzen slowed him down.

“Step with the blade,” he said. “Let balance do the work.”

Tommick tried again, jaw set. Sweat beaded on his brow, but he didn’t stop. He was small, sure—but not in determination. When his grip finally slipped, and the stick clattered to the dirt, Orzen tossed him the waterskin. He caught it against his chest and drank like the forest heat had baked him hollow.

“I’m a knight now…right?” he panted.

“You’re getting there.” Orzen patted his shoulder.

The boy grinned as if Orzen had handed him a trophy, clutching his stick sword with pride. He wiped sweat from his brow, eyes brighter than they had been in days.

“Useless,” Silas scoffed, and went back to his bolts.