When my consciousness returned to the material plane, I eagerly accepted the series of notifications that waited in the corner of my awareness, bringing up my status.

  Congratulations! Through your efforts you gave advanced your skill “Beginner’s Sheild Art” to (9/10)!

  Congratulations! Through your efforts, you have mastered the skill “Beginner’s Sheild Art”!

  +1 Endurance!

  Status:

  Name: Bran

  Class: [Grove Guard], LVL 1

  Attributes:

  Strength – 15

  Dexterity – 11

  Constitution – 16

  Endurance – 23 (+1)

  Wisdom – 6

  Intelligence – 9

  Aura – 6

  Luck – 5

  Class Skills: (0/5)

  General Skills: (1/3)

  The Willow’s Wrath (24/25)

  Mastered Skills:

  Beginner’s Shield Art [+1 Endurance]

  Congratulations! For mastering the class skill “Beginner’s Shield Art” you are granted the opportunity to select a new skill ahead of schedule! Would you like to do so now? (Y/N).

  I minimized the notifications, not choosing either, and just allowed myself to feel as the System augmented my body. It began in my core, muscled tightened and pulled, a numbness spreading outwards just as things got painful. Like my stomach had its own gravity, every single muscle tightened and pulled towards my core; only for that numbness to reach them before I felt any pain.

  Minutes passed as I laid motionless in bed. The tingling numbness never faded. Slowly a cooling warmth spread outwards from my mana core, replacing the numbness as it travelled.

  I laid there, comfortable in the contradiction that spread over me for a long moment. It felt like being in a bath at the perfect temperature in the heart of winter. Bitter cold cocooned around perfect warmth. It took five minutes for the sensation to fade fully, and only then did I accept the System’s prompt.

  Beginner’s Sword Art -> A basic martial style designed to acquaint one with the basic footwork, strikes, parries, and blocks of wielding a sword.

  Beginner’s Spear Art -> A basic martial style designed to acquaint one with the basic footwork, strikes, parries, and blocks of wielding a spear.

  Beginner’s Axe Art -> A basic martial style designed to acquaint one with the basic footwork, strikes, blocks, and parries of wielding an axe.

  Beginner’s Hammer Art -> A basic martial style designed to acquaint one with the basic footwork, strikes, blocks, and parries of wielding a war hammer.

  Beginner’s Woodcraft -> A generalized guide on how to survive in forested terrain.

  Rooted Stance -> Send tendrils of mana into the earth beneath you to anchor your footing against attacks.

  I scanned through most of the choices, all but one having been there when I chose Beginner’s Shield Art. Rooted Stance was new and the most tempting to pick. A fancy new ability that would have an immediate impact on the way I fought. It was also what the [Paladins] referred to as a supplemental skill. A skill that aided my existing style of combat rather than improve or change it.

  The advice of the Order’s elders, people far more powerful than anyone I’d met since leaving the forest, was to choose class skills that improved your foundations rather than skills which simply aided them. Which was why I chose Beginner’s Hammer Art. Not a fancy choice, but like my last, it would solidify my foundations and improve my ability as a combatant as a whole rather than in a single niche way.

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  You have selected “Beginner’s Hammer Art”. Be warned, choosing this skill will bar the other Beginner Weapon Arts from appearing as [Grove Guard] class skills again. Do you wish to proceed? (Y/N).

  Briefly I pictured myself taking up the spear or axe, but dismissed that and confirmed my choice.

  Congratulations! You have learned “Beginner’s Hammer Art” (1/10)!

  I dismissed the notification to bring up my status again, focusing on the skills section.

  Class Skills: (1/5)

  Beginner’s hammer Art (1/10)

  General Skills: (1/3)

  The Willow’s Wrath (24/25)

  Mastered Skills

  Beginner’s Sheild Art [+1 Endurance]

  When I closed my status again, an echo of frustration at the fact class skills did not take past expertise into account had bubbled up from my gut. Overall, I was happy with my choice, and more than that, excited to see what would take the place of the other weapon arts once I got to choose my next skill.

  ~~~***~~~

  Seated at the desk in my room, another soapstone tablet in front of me, I squinted as the late afternoon sunlight glinted off the blade of my chisel. A reminder to go down for dinner once I was done with this tablet.

  I had no idea how to start what I wanted to say. I’d gone over and rejected dozens of opening lines. Debated the phrasing for what felt like hours. Eventually I settled on making the front of the tablet a summary of my time in Woodsedge so far.

  I wrote about how I’d formed a party. That I didn’t know any of the other members well yet, but I hoped that one day they would be friends and not just allies. I went over what the youth program was like, and the strange ritual of the stewards Right of Choice.

  Almost sheepish, I carved my mistake into stone, admitting that I’d crossed a major taboo my first time sparring with a peer. I finished the summary by writing that I still had a way to go if I wanted to make amends with one of my new party members.

  I signed the tablet at the bottom of the stone in small, clipped letters. With a quiet dread, I scanned the text for any grammar or spelling mistakes. I noticed a few but decided they were small enough that I wasn’t going to recarve the entire tablet again.

  I still was not happy with it. Sure, the tablets were a way to record my journey outside the forest, but more than that, they were a record for my daughter. That in mind, I flipped the stone, careful not to spray rock chips, and carved a more personal letter.

  Hello little sapling. When I carve this, you’re still too young to read, but I hope someday your mother and grandmother take these out to show you. It’s been a week since I left home and already, I miss you more than I thought possible.

  This is the longest I have ever been away from you. Everyday I worry I miss a new milestone, your first steps, your first words, your first sentence. The thought of not being there breaks my heart. Know that if I could, I would never leave your side; but the needs of the Grace Mother call me away, and it is my duty to answer.

  The wood of the chair groaned as I leaned back to consider the words in stone. They weren’t enough. I went back and forth several times about whether to scrap the whole thing and start again. This was for my Helena, not Iona. Why was I speaking of duty in a letter to my infant? I wrestled with what to do with this draft for a long time, but kept going. I would try to get down how I felt, but doubted it would come across.

  I am bad at sentimentality, Helena. I am not a poet, nor am I a scholar. I lack the words to describe how much I love you, and how much I wish I could be there with you right now. I know that one day you find a purpose that brings you happiness, and that you love. Know that no matter your choice, baker, laborer, mage, or warrior, I will love you all the same.

  Dad.

  Tears damped the stone as I carved the last words of the tablet. There was so much more I wanted to say, so much I needed to say in case I failed. I just didn’t have the words to do so.

  I took me a moment to force my tears to stop and to regain composure before I dusted off the top of the tablet and put it away. With delicate movements, I gathered the cloth I’d been carving on and dumped the rock dust from my room’s small window onto the street below. Barely missing a passing couple.

  Dinner that night was quiet for me. Sure, the common room was full and boisterous, and the food was better than usual, but I couldn’t find it within me to enjoy either. Widow tried to talk to me briefly. Seated across the bar from me with her too wide smile. Distracted by thoughts of home, I missed it when she reached out to touch my shoulder.

  On instinct, my hand dropped to my belt knife and six inches of steel flashed in the lamplight. It wasn’t a conscious movement, nor did I mean Widow any offense. She just startled me out of thought. Thankfully, the older woman took no offense at the gesture. She simply smiled and gave me space for the rest of the meal.

  I didn’t bother to pack anything that night. Instead, I read over my letter to Helena again and grew more frustrated with my inability to convey what I wanted. Angry at my skill with words and carvings. They lacked all the Grace and artistry I’d envisioned when I left home with a block of soapstone on my back. When I’d first left, a vain part of me hoped I’d turn these tablets into works of art.

  The consequences of being Ylena’s first chosen, heir to the Willow’s Wrath, and a member of the Black Hands were not things I like to think on. Already I had a legacy that would live on so long as the Cult of Weeping Grace survived.

  My every action had been, and would be, recorded and propagandized in the histories of my people.

  I sat there at the too small desk; my hand gliding across the uneven surface of the tablet as I thought of a parable based on me that already spread through the Cult.

  They called it the ‘Parable of Dust’. The story was changed, the details altered to better fit a moral, but all the broad points remained. I had been ten and challenged to my first ever duel by a boy two years older than me.

  I’d slighted him in training. I’d held back and refused to honor Decay’s due. Called him weak. So, he challenged me, and set the terms to a Duel of Renewal. The boy was so angry he felt the two of us could no longer breathe the same air.

  I knew the terms, I knew the rules, I knew my duty, yet still, I held back. I didn’t want this boy dead. He didn’t need to die for this.

  I’d downed him within minutes. One of his knees caved in. His left arm a fleshy mess that dangled uselessly from the elbow down. I stood over him, even then I towered over most teenagers, and hesitated. The boy punished me for my weakness and drove his rapier through my stomach, tore it to side and disemboweled me.

  I remember the feeling of the dust on my knees, on my intestines, in my hands as I desperately scrabbled to shove my guts back into place; the grit rough, like sandpaper.

  I remember looking back at the boy, at the child, and seeing nothing but glee and the gleam of steel in sunlight as he thrust towards my throat.

  I remember the mad scramble to grab my shield, the feeling of my organs dragging along the sands of the dueling pit.

  I remember the sickening crunch as the rim of my shield broke his nose, the terrible squelch as my shield crushed his eyes, the give as my shield shattered his skull.

  The parable does not remember any of that.

  It remembers only the cost of my weakness, the cost of mercy. It remembers only the Renewal I found in Gerard’s Stagnation.

  I did not like the thought of my place in history. Part of me hoped these tablets would add a new chapter to my legacy. That future generations could see my love, that they would allow Helena to see my love for her. That there would be more to my story than violence. Perhaps one day I would have the skill to carve the way I wanted, the skill to convey how I felt.

  That day had not arrived, however, and I only hoped that when Helena grew old enough to read these, she’d see some beauty in my attempts to convey just how much I love her.