The spear thrust came at him fast—too fast for a morning drill. Caleb shifted his weight, letting Narbok's practice weapon slide past his ribs, the attack read three moves ago.

  "Watch your footwork, dull-ear!" Narbok's amber eyes glittered with satisfaction. "Or maybe half-breeds can't manage proper forms?"

  Caleb stumbled back, making it look uncoordinated. The packed earth of the garrison training yard bit into his knees as he fell. Good. Let the bully think he'd scored a victory.

  A soft chime registered in his mind, a quiet acknowledgment of his ongoing performance.

  [Your proficiency with Deception (F) has increased to Adept]

  Right, he thought with a flicker of satisfaction. Even pretending to be bad is a skill you have to practice.

  "Sorry," Caleb wheezed, pushing himself up with a deliberate, pained effort. "Still learning."

  Across the yard, Captain Hatch's voice cracked over the grounds. "Blackbriar! Less talking, more drilling!"

  The green-skinned Mycari’s eyes narrowed at Caleb before he returned to his assigned position. His cronies, Finn and Durk, snickered from their spots in the formation.

  Leo Tanner materialized at Caleb's elbow, helping him to his feet. The boy's soft face was pinched with worry.

  "Th-thanks," Leo whispered. "For taking that hit. He was aiming for me."

  "Just stay close." Caleb’s words were a murmur meant only for Leo, his eyes tracking Hatch’s position. The Captain stood at the edge of the training ground, arms crossed, watching everything with the intensity of a hawk. "And remember what I taught you about your stance."

  Hatch barked the next command as they fell back into formation. [Iron Root Stance] into [Breaching Thrust]. Caleb moved, fighting his own instincts. [Savant of the Body] flooded his limbs with the knowledge of the ideal angle, the precise force required. Too fast. Slow it down. He deliberately introduced a wobble into his stance. Hatch saw it. Good. Make the next block look clumsy. He executed the thrust with just enough error to pass as a struggling novice.

  Aurum climbed higher in the morning sky, turning the autumn air crisp. Sweat beaded on Caleb's forehead as they transitioned to paired drills. Of course, Narbok positioned himself and his crew nearby.

  "Switch partners every five exchanges!" Hatch commanded.

  The first rotation went smoothly. Caleb paired with Leo, walking him through basic blocks. The kid was improving—marginally. His grip was less desperate, his stance more grounded. Small victories.

  The second rotation brought Finn. The wiry boy had mean eyes and meaner habits. Their wooden spears clacked together in the prescribed pattern, but Finn kept edging closer, trying to crowd Caleb's space.

  "Heard you joined the Adventurer's Guild," Finn said between strikes. "Think that makes you special?"

  Caleb narrowed his attention to the rhythm. Strike, block, counter. Don't rise to the bait.

  "The Greenshade boys are talking about teaching you proper respect." Finn's next thrust came harder, aiming for Caleb's bruised ribs. "Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. You never know."

  Of course these punks recruited more help. Caleb stored it away, adding it to his mental checklist of problems to solve. Right now, he had a more immediate goal.

  "Next rotation!"

  This time Caleb found himself facing Narbok directly. The Mycari's practice spear spun in his hands with casual competence. He'd been training longer, moved with the confidence of someone who'd grown up with weapons.

  "Let's see what the kitchen boy's learned," Narbok said, loud enough for others to hear.

  They engaged. Narbok didn't hold back, his strikes coming fast and heavy. Caleb gave ground, deflecting each strike and letting the force slide away. His body wanted to counter, to strike into the openings Narbok's aggression created. He suppressed the urge.

  He let a thrust slipped through, catching his shoulder, and a hot spike of pain drove into the muscle. He leaned on [Ignore Pain] to bite back the curse, and reset his stance.

  "Pathetic," Narbok sneered. "Your whore mother should have—"

  The words cut off as Captain Hatch's shadow fell across them.

  "Blackbriar." The Captain's voice was dangerously quiet. "Explain to me why your form looks like a drunk goblin's mating dance."

  Narbok's green skin darkened. "Sir, I was just—"

  "Overextending on every thrust. Dropping your guard after each attack. Telegraphing your intentions like a town crier." Hatch's brown eyes were devoid of sympathy. "If this were real combat, you'd be dead three times over."

  "But he's so slow—"

  "Caldorn maintained proper form throughout. You abandoned yours chasing easy hits." Hatch stepped back. "Twenty laps around the yard. Your entire squad. Move!"

  A muscle jumped in Narbok's jaw, his lips pulling back from his teeth, but he couldn't disobey a direct order. He and his cronies dropped their spears and started running. As they passed, Durk made a throat-cutting gesture at Caleb.

  Caleb rolled his eyes.

  The remaining drills proceeded smoothly. Caleb continued his balancing act—improving enough to show dedication, stumbling enough to seem harmless. By the time Hatch called the session to end, his shirt was soaked through and his collection of bruises had expanded.

  "Dismissed!" Hatch barked. "Same time tomorrow. Don't be late."

  The recruits scattered, most heading for the village proper. Leo lingered, clearly wanting to talk, but Caleb had a narrow window. He watched Narbok's crew finish their punishment laps, saw them trudge toward the gate.

  Now or never.

  Caleb straightened his aching spine and approached Captain Hatch. The man was inspecting practice weapons, separating damaged ones for repair. Up close, the Captain's impressive presence stemmed from the way his physique commanded the space around him.

  "Sir?" Caleb pitched his voice carefully. Respectful but eager. "May I speak with you?"

  Hatch glanced up, one eyebrow raised. "Caldorn. What is it?"

  "I wanted to thank you for the instruction today. And..." Caleb let enthusiasm color his words. "I was wondering if I might borrow a practice spear. To train on my own time. I know I'm behind the others, and I want to catch up."

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  The Captain studied him for a long moment. Caleb felt the scrutiny of that assessment, fought the urge to fidget. This was just another networking event, another manager to impress.

  "You work at the Hearthsong, don't you?" Hatch asked.

  "Yes, sir. Kitchen duty."

  "Long hours."

  "I'll make time, sir. Between breaks, after my shift. Whatever it takes." Caleb injected just the right amount of determination into his voice. "I don't want to be the weak link in the formation."

  Another pause. Then Hatch nodded slowly.

  "Initiative. I respect that." He gestured to the equipment shed. "Take one from the shed. But understand this—I'll be watching your progress. If I don't see improvement, you'll return it immediately."

  "Understood, sir. Thank you."

  "Don't thank me yet." A ghost of a smile touched Hatch's lips. "Extra training means I expect extra results. Dismissed."

  Caleb placed his right fist over his heart and offered a short, formal bow before turning away.

  As he headed for the garrison gate after collecting his training spear, a voice called out behind him.

  "Th-Thal! Wait up!"

  Leo hurried to catch him, clutching a small, grease-stained paper bag. His round face was flushed from exertion and something else. Nervousness?

  "Hey Leo." Caleb slowed his pace. "Good work today. Your blocks are getting stronger."

  "Thanks to you." Leo fell into step beside him, fidgeting with the bag. "I, um, I wanted to give you this. As a thank you. For everything."

  He thrust the bag at Caleb like it might explode. Inside was a golden-brown sweet roll, the twisting pastry glazed with what looked like honey and cinnamon.

  "Leo, you didn't have to—"

  "Please." The boy's voice cracked slightly. "Just take it. I made it myself this morning. Before training."

  Caleb accepted the gift, recognizing the gesture for what it was. In his old life, Jack had done similar things—small offerings when words weren't enough. The well-known ache squeezed his heart.

  "It looks delicious," Caleb said simply. "Thank you."

  The words seemed to unlock something in Leo. They'd walked along the garrison walls now, into a quiet area behind the armory where crates created impromptu seating. Leo sat heavily on one, and Caleb joined him.

  "My father's going to kill me," Leo said suddenly, his voice barely a whisper. "He says... he says 'a Tanner never yields.' But when he finds out how badly I'm doing..." He trailed off, misery etched into his youthful features.

  Caleb took a bite of the sweet roll, buying time. It was excellent—light, flaky, with just the right balance of sweet and buttery.

  "Tell me about your father," he said finally.

  "Sergeant Torric Tanner. Eleventh Legion, Delving Corps." Leo recited it like a prayer and a curse combined. "Decorated three times for valor. Reached D-Tier before his thirtieth birthday. Every morning at breakfast, he tells me about his exploits. How he cleared the Gossamer Depths. How he held the line at Karron's Pass."

  "That's a lot to live up to."

  "I can't!" The words burst from Leo, full of frustration. "My hands shake every time I hold a spear. All that practice means nothing. For them, the forms are a recipe they already know. For me... it's like I'm trying to bake a cake with salt instead of sugar. It just comes out wrong, no matter what I do. I'm not a warrior. I'll never be one."

  Caleb recognized the self-defeating pattern. He'd seen it in Jack when the boy struggled with sports, trying desperately to be something he wasn't.

  "Leo." He kept his voice calm, steady. "What do you want to be?"

  The question seemed to surprise the boy. "What?"

  "Forget your father for a moment. Forget the Legion. If you could do anything, be anything, what would you choose?"

  Leo's hands squirmed in his lap. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

  "A baker."

  The admission hung between them like a confession of heresy. In a world of warriors and adventurers, choosing flour over steel was almost unthinkable.

  "Tell me about baking," Caleb said.

  Leo's entire demeanor transformed. The nervous stutter vanished as he launched into an explanation of proofing times and hydration ratios. His hands moved as he described shaping dough, creating the ideal spiral for sweet rolls. His eyes lit up talking about the satisfaction of feeding people, of creating something that brought joy instead of death.

  "The secret to a good crust," Leo said, more animated than Caleb had ever seen him, "is steam. You need that moisture in the first few minutes, or the surface sets too quickly and you don't get proper oven spring. It's... it's about balance, about knowing exactly when to add things and when to wait. It's like alchemy, but—" He caught himself, the enthusiasm draining away. "But it's not fighting. It's not... 'a Tanner earns his strength,' that's what he always says. Not by baking bread."

  "Your father?"

  "Everyone. My father. The Legion. The whole Dominion runs on strength." Leo’s voice dropped, full of a quiet, inherited bitterness. "And our family... we're just common stock. No ancient bloodline, no special gifts from our ancestors. Father says a Tanner earns his strength because we weren't just born with it. It’s just another thing he can be disappointed in me for."

  Caleb finished the treat, the sweet pastry a simple contrast to the bitter memory of his own son's struggles.

  He remembered Jack, age ten, quitting the soccer team after a particularly rough game where the other kids had mocked him for being too slow. Jack had tried to hide his tears, but Caleb had seen them. He'd wanted to storm onto that field, to scream at the coach, at the other parents. Instead, he had taken Jack home and they had built a ridiculously complex Lego starship together, a silent act of solidarity.

  He looked at Leo, at the shadow of a gentle boy being crushed by a world that only valued force. A powerful protective impulse surged through him, a reflex carved into his being by a decade and a half of fatherhood.

  "You know what takes real strength, Leo?" Caleb’s voice was quiet, but it held a conviction that made the boy look up. "Holding onto who you are when the entire world is trying to beat it out of you. Creating something good in a world full of destruction. Anyone can learn to swing a spear. It takes a special person to make something that brings happiness.”

  "My father says cooking is women's work."

  "Your father's wrong." The words came out harder than intended. Caleb moderated his tone. "I've worked in Gareth's kitchen for weeks now. You think he's weak? That man could probably bench press your father while filleting a fish. Creating food is a skill, a craft. In some ways, it's harder than fighting."

  Leo looked up at him, a fragile hope in his eyes. "You really think so?"

  "I know so. And here's something else—being good at something you hate will kill you slowly. Being mediocre at something you love will fill your life with purpose."

  [New Skill Gained: Teaching (F) - Novice]

  The notification surprised him. He hadn't realized the system tracked mentoring skills.

  "But the training—"

  "Is mandatory, I know. So here's what you do." Caleb shifted into problem-solving mode. "You concentrate on survival skills. Defense. Dodging. Running. You don't need to be a warrior, just competent enough to avoid dying. Use the rest of your energy on what matters to you."

  "And when my father finds out?"

  "You'll be older. Established. Maybe running your own bakery." Caleb met the boy's eyes. "The hardest battle you'll ever fight is for the right to be yourself. But it's the only one worth winning."

  Leo sat in silence for a moment, processing. Then he smiled, a genuine expression that replaced the nervous twitch Caleb was used to seeing.

  "Thank you," Leo said simply. "For listening. For... understanding."

  "Anytime."

  They sat in companionable silence for a moment before Leo spoke again, his voice thoughtful.

  "Oh, I just remembered something. Be careful if you go out." He glanced around, lowering his voice. "I was at the Hall yesterday, delivering some bread. Overheard a couple adventurers complaining about feral goblins. Said there's been more of them lately, out by the old quarry. The abandoned one, north of the village."

  Caleb's attention sharpened. "Goblins?"

  "Feral ones. They were grousing about how the bounty isn't worth the danger, said the little buggers have been unusually aggressive. One of them mentioned nearly losing a finger." Leo shuddered. "Nasty creatures."

  "How far is this quarry?"

  "Maybe an hour's walk? Follow the north trail until you see the broken millstone, then cut east through the woods. But Thal, why do you—" Understanding dawned on Leo's face. "You're not thinking of hunting them?"

  "Just gathering information."

  "Be careful. Please. I just made my first real friend. I'd rather not lose you to goblin fangs."

  Friend.

  First Corinne, now Leo. A wry thought surfaced. Holy mackerel, I’m collecting surrogate children. It was absurd. He was supposed to be learning to survive, not building a new family by accident. Crumb. He had to be careful. At this rate, he’d have a whole new set of kids to worry about before he figured out how to protect just himself.

  "I'll be careful," Caleb promised. "And Leo? That sweet roll really was delicious. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

  The boy beamed as they parted ways. Instead of heading for the garrison exit, Leo turned and walked back toward the equipment shed with a new, deliberate stride. After a moment's hesitation, he picked his practice spear back up. Shouldering it, he gave Caleb a small, determined nod before turning towards the dummies. Caleb watched him go, seeing shades of Jack in the slump of his shoulders straightening with newfound purpose.

  The sun climbed toward its zenith as Caleb made his way to the Hearthsong. He had a kitchen shift to survive, then a spear to practice. Tonight, the real training would begin.

  The sweet roll sat warm in his stomach, a reminder that strength took many forms beyond combat. But in this world, violence was still the universal currency.

  Time to make a deposit.