Mist curling around the trees as Ruth finished his daily run. His legs burned from the miles, his lungs heavy with each breath, yet a spark of excitement thrummed in his chest. Today, he would spar with the old man — the highlight of his morning, the test that always left him exhausted and exhilarated.
By the clearing, the old man stood waiting, wooden sword in hand, posture calm, eyes sharp. Ruth adjusted his grip on his own weapon, muscles coiling instinctively. Every morning followed the same ritual, yet every fight felt alive, unpredictable — a dance of steel and instinct.
"Ready?" the old man asked, his voice steady, almost soft.
Ruth nodded, anticipation curling through him. He liked this — the clash, the precision, the thrill of measuring himself against someone far beyond his own skill.
They circled each other, feet brushing the grass, dust drifting up around them. Ruth lunged first, swinging low, testing the old man's reflexes. Calm as ever, the old man stepped aside, blade flashing past Ruth's shoulder.
"Faster," the old man said quietly, almost a whisper. "Predict less. Feel more."
Ruth gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing. He charged again, this time feinting left, then swinging wide. The old man didn't move his feet, only shifted his torso — the sword sliding past, grazing Ruth's arm. The boy stumbled, barely catching his balance, heart racing.
A sudden pivot — the old man's strike came from above, precise and deliberate. Ruth blocked, but the force rattled his arms. He spun, recovering, swinging back with renewed energy. The forest seemed to shrink around them, the sound of clashing wood and their breathing filling the space.
They moved like shadows and wind, Ruth stepping faster, parrying, thrusting, ducking. Every block and strike honed his instincts. The old man's eyes never left him, watching, correcting, pushing — teaching without a single word beyond the soft commands.
Then came the moment Ruth didn't see.
The old man feigned a step back, baiting him forward. Ruth lunged eagerly, sword aimed at the old man's chest. But with a subtle shift, the old man twisted aside and delivered a clean, sweeping strike. The edge of his wooden sword caught Ruth's shoulder — slicing through the fabric of his shirt.
The fabric tore, fluttering to the ground in strips. Ruth froze, catching his breath, but didn't react to the mark beneath — he already knew it was there, and it barely registered in his mind.
But as the old man slowly turned to face him, his eyes fell on the mark. Time seemed to slow. The faint, twisting sigil on Ruth's right shoulder — dark against pale skin — struck him like a blow. His heart tightened. A dull ache throbbed in his temples.
He knelt, placing a hand gently on Ruth's shoulder. His voice was soft, almost broken:
"What… is this?"
Ruth blinked, still breathing heavily. "I… I don't know. I've had it as long as I can remember."
The old man's lips parted, but no more words came. His chest rose and fell unevenly as memories long buried clawed their way back. He stared at that mark — at the trace of the past, the curse, the life he thought lost.
"…All along…" he whispered, barely audible.
Forcing himself to stand, he drew a slow, somber breath. He gave Ruth a small, gentle smile, one filled with grief and unspoken love.
"Put your shirt back on," he said quietly. "That's enough for today. Rest. You still have much to learn."
Ruth, still panting from the fight, nodded. He didn't understand the sudden shift in the old man's demeanor, the quiet weight in his expression. He walked toward the cabin, glancing back once but saying nothing.
The clearing fell silent. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the weight of unspoken truths.
Night came, and the old man sat alone near the fire, tossing a small stick into the flames. The glow painted his weathered face in warm, flickering light. He watched the fire burn slowly, smoke curling around him like a ghost.
Finally, he whispered, voice low, broken, full of sorrow and longing:
"Withered Ashes…"
The words drifted into the night, soft, fragile, and heavy with unspoken meaning. The past pressed against the present, and for a moment, the old man allowed himself to feel everything he had held back — regret, love, grief, and the fragile hope of what lay ahead.