Three years. Just over three years have passed since the first time I stumbled into this clearing with a trembling body and a dull blade made of wood.
Now I stand at its edge again—taller, stronger, steadier.
The sword at my side is real now. The flame in my palm dances when I call it. My body holds the quiet weight of discipline. And somewhere beneath all of that, my soul hums like a quiet drumbeat. Constant. Alive.
I hear footsteps crunch the dry grass behind me. They're heavy. Familiar. Varric doesn't need to speak when he enters the clearing. He never did.
But I turn anyway. And there he is. Same long coat. Same worn boots. His beard is a little more grey. His shoulders, maybe slightly stiffer. But the weight in his gaze? Exactly the same.
Unshaken. Unyielding. He looks me over, slowly. His eyes flick from my face to my stance, to the way I breathe, to how my fingers rest lightly near my belt. Then he nods, just once. "You've grown," he says.
I nod back. "You said six months."
He snorts. "Got delayed. Monsters near the southern ridge. Took longer to clear than expected."
"Did you fight them alone?"
"Mostly." Typical.
We spend the next hour in the field as I show him what I've learned.
I summon the flame with calm breath, holding it mid-air, letting it split in two smaller threads and rejoin. I form a fireball the size of my palm, hover it, and extinguish it without a sound. I draw my wooden sword and demonstrate fluid strikes in sequence, combining steps, pivots, aura flares, and backward momentum.
Varric watches in silence.
Only once does he speak: "Again," when I slip on a breath-timed strike. Otherwise, he just folds his arms and observes. His face is stone. But his eyes—sharp and alive.
Finally, I finish. I stand in the center of the circle, chest rising with sweat, but not exhausted. Not anymore.
Varric walks forward slowly. He crouches, draws a quick arc in the dirt with his finger, and stares at it like it holds the truth of the world. Then he straightens. "You've done well."
The words hit heavier than I expect. Like heat in winter.
I try not to show how much I needed to hear that. But Varric's not done.
"One last lesson," he says, voice lower now.
"Not one I can talk you through. You've already learned everything I can give. Now it's time to prove it."
I narrow my eyes. "How?"
He smiles—just barely. "We fight."
I blink. "What?"
"You and me. A sparring match. You use everything I've taught. Body, aura, magic, strategy. If you land a single clean hit, just one, you pass."
"…That's it?"
"That's it."
I pause. "You're serious?"
"You think I'd joke about something like this?"
Right. Of course he wouldn't. I draw in a breath. I look down at my hands—callused, steady, warm from earlier flamework. Then back at him. "I accept."
"Good," he says. "Meet me tomorrow morning. At the village gate." He turns to leave—but pauses after two steps. "Bring your training sword. We're not here to kill each other."
I raise an eyebrow. "So you were planning to go easy?"
He glances over his shoulder, smirking. "Hardly."
That night, I return home under the purple veil of dusk. The sun slips behind the hills as I push open the front door.
Lina looks up from the table, mid-stitch with a cloth doll she's been making for one of the village children. Rennan is near the stove, stirring a pot of stew. The smell of herbs and roasted carrots fills the room.
"You're late," Rennan says without turning.
"I was with Varric," I answer, sliding off my boots. Lina's eyes widen. "He's back?"
I nod. "He came to check on my training."
Rennan sets the spoon down slowly. Lina's stitching pauses. "And?" she asks.
I scratch the back of my neck. "He said I've done well."
Lina smiles, visibly relieved. But it fades when I add: "…But there's a test."
Their expressions shift. "What kind of test?" Rennan asks.
"A sparring match," I say. "If I can land one hit, I pass."
Silence. Then: "What?" Lina nearly drops her cloth. "You're fighting him?"
"Just a match," I say quickly. "Wooden swords. No blood."
Rennan crosses his arms. "He won't go easy on you."
"I know."
"That's what worries me," Lina says. "You could get hurt."
I step forward. "I've trained for three years. This is what it was for."
Her eyes soften. She stands, places a hand gently on my cheek. "I know," she whispers. "And we're proud of you. But promise me you'll be careful."
"I will," I say. Rennan gives a slow nod. "Then we'll be there."
. . .
The morning arrives with gold light stretching over the hills and mist curling along the trees like breath held too long.
I barely sleep. Not from fear. Not exactly. Just… weight. Like something pressing on my chest, full of too many thoughts. What if I fail? What if I don't land a hit at all?
But then again, Varric didn't say "win." He said land a hit. Just one. That's enough. Maybe.
I tighten the laces on my boots and pull my hair back from my face. I haven't worn it tied in a long time, but today, it feels right.
My wooden sword rests at my side, worn from thousands of repetitions. It's light, but firm. Familiar. Like the calluses on my palms.
I open the door quietly. The morning dew greets me with cool fingers. The whole village is still waking. Smoke rises from chimneys. A few farmers gather near the barn. But near the gate… I see him.
Varric stands just outside the arch, arms folded, staring into the open grassland beyond. Waiting.
I meet him there. No words. Just a nod.
We walk together in silence past the edge of the village, following a narrow path worn down by wind and time. It opens into a broad, flat field—tall grass whispering in waves, wildflowers scattered like flecks of color spilled across the earth.
The perfect place to move. To breathe. To clash. When we reach the center, I turn and catch movement at the top of the hill. The village. They're here. Rennan. Lina. Nella. The old baker. Even the three-year-olds who always shout when I pass. All of them stand watching, just far enough to stay safe, just close enough to see.
Lina's hands are clenched in front of her. Rennan's got one arm around her shoulder. I feel my chest tighten again. But I don't look away.
Varric turns to face me. He pulls two wooden swords from his belt and tosses one into the dirt between us. It lands point-down, sticking upright. I pick it up.
He rolls his shoulder, loosening his limbs like a man thirty years younger. "Rules are simple," he says, tone even. "No holding back. No pity. You get one clean hit, you pass."
I nod. "Understood."
"You ready?" I take a deep breath. The wind brushes the grass around my boots. My fingers flex around the hilt. "Yes."
He slides one foot back. Low stance. Guard raised. Then he smirks slightly. "Then come."
I move without thinking. Muscle memory.
I dash low across the grass, closing the distance in a blink.
He deflects my first strike easily—wood smacking wood, his blade glancing mine away like I'm still a child.
I spin. Re-center. Go for his ribs.
Parried. Again. Blocked. He's faster than I remember. Or maybe I'm slower than I thought.
I grit my teeth, shifting back into stance.
He doesn't attack. Just waits. Like a mountain. Watching. Daring.
The crowd behind us murmurs.
I don't look back. I launch forward again—this time feinting left, then spinning right to try and sweep his leg.
He hops just out of reach. "Predictable," he mutters.
My jaw tightens. I breathe. Think. He's not reacting to speed. He's reading rhythm. Pattern. My tells.
I reset my stance. This time, I wait.
We circle each other like wolves. And for the first time since the match started… Varric strikes first.
Varric moves like a falling tree—deliberate, heavy, unstoppable. His first strike is slow, but it carries the weight of stone behind it. I barely dodge in time, the wooden blade sweeping just past my shoulder with a thrum of air.
He's testing me. Seeing how I'd react. I answer with a counter—tight arc, upstroke toward his open side. He parries. Effortlessly. "Too wide," he mutters.
I pivot around, trying to stay on the edge of his reach, and go low again, aiming for his legs.
He doesn't even block this time. He steps aside, foot sweeping behind my ankle.
I stumble. And the tip of his sword taps my shoulder. Light. Not even a real strike. But it says everything.
He could've ended it there. My grip tightens. I take a few paces back, chest rising fast.
He's not unbeatable. But he's reading me like a book.
Every step I make, he's already seen.
Every strike, he's already blocked.
He's not just stronger.
He's smarter. Older. Experienced.
I clench my jaw and lunge again. This time I spin low and sweep upward in a tight arc. Aiming for his chin.
He ducks under. Reverses his grip mid-motion. Brings the sword down fast.
CRACK!
My blade vibrates in my hand from the impact. I stagger, almost dropping it.
But I hold on. Barely.
Ten more minutes pass.
I lose count of how many times I strike. How many times I fail.
The wooden blades clash again and again, echoing through the clearing.
The village watches in silence. Even the birds have stopped singing.
I drop into a crouch, panting. Sweat rolls down my brow.
My legs ache. My arms are heavy.
He's still standing like it's nothing.
Varric isn't even breathing hard. "You're not thinking," he says.
"I am!"
"No," he says calmly. "You're reacting. That's not the same."
I grit my teeth. "Then what should I be doing?"
He lowers his guard slightly—just slightly. "Ask yourself: what haven't you tried?"
I step back again. I close my eyes for just a second. My heartbeat pounds against my ribs.
What haven't I tried? I've used every form he taught me. Every movement I drilled into my bones. And none of them are working. Because he knows them. He taught me everything I know.
But… He didn't teach me everything he knows. That means…
There are still things outside the box he built for me.
I open my eyes. The world feels… different now. The breeze tugs at the grass. The crowd breathes in unison behind me. And Varric waits, unmoving.
I shift my grip on the sword. Lower my stance. Then I whisper, "Sorry."
"What for?"
"For doing something stupid." I sprint forward again—but this time, I don't raise my sword. Instead, just as he prepares to block, I slide into the dirt at the last second—straight past him.
He whips around. But I'm already behind him. I don't strike with my sword. I use my off-hand. My fist swings wide—holding a glowing ember just big enough to distract him.
He turns to block the fire.
And that's when I bring my blade around, reversed, and tap the edge of his hip.
The hit is clean. It's not strong. It doesn't knock him down. But it lands. The wooden blade touches his side without interference.
The match pauses. Everything freezes. I lower the sword. Still breathing hard.
Sweat clinging to every inch of me. Varric stares down at the spot I struck. Then he exhales once, slow and deep. "…Well done."
I blink. For a second, I don't believe him. Then I grin—wide and wild—and let out a loud cheer before I can stop myself. "I DID IT!" I shout. "I actually—"
"You landed one hit," he cuts in, raising an eyebrow. I clear my throat, trying not to laugh. "Right. Just one."
"That's all it took." He nods. And for the first time in three years, Varric says words I never thought I'd hear. "You've passed."
The field erupts. I hear it before I even turn—cheers rolling like a wave from the top of the hill. The villagers raise their hands, clapping, shouting, laughing. Even the quiet ones are on their feet.
A chant starts, awkward at first, then growing: "Al-bus! Al-bus! Al-bus!"
I feel heat rise to my cheeks. It's strange. I've been stared at before. Whispered about. Feared. But never… celebrated.
Lina is already rushing down the slope. Her skirt lifts around her ankles as she bolts toward me, arms outstretched. "Albus!"
She nearly tackles me into the grass, throwing her arms around my shoulders and squeezing until I can't breathe. "You're not hurt?" she whispers, voice trembling.
"Just tired," I manage.
Rennan catches up, slightly winded but grinning. He places a hand on my shoulder, firm and proud. "You did it, kid."
"I… I guess I did." He ruffles my hair, and I groan. "Stop, I'm not a child anymore."
"You are until the day you beat me in a spar," Rennan jokes.
Varric walks past us, brushing grass off his coat like nothing happened. "You fought like a wild fox," he says over his shoulder. "Sloppy. Unexpected. Effective."
I blink. "That's a compliment?"
"It is if you know me." He keeps walking toward the village.
The crowd begins following, murmuring about a celebration. Someone shouts, "Let's throw a party!" Another adds, "Bring out the cider!"
"Get the stew pots ready!" Soon, the air is full of clattering dishes, dragging benches, and the scent of firewood and roasting onions.
. . .
By the time the sun starts to fall behind the trees, the entire village center is alight with lanterns.
Tables overflow with food—bread still steaming from the oven, grilled vegetables, baskets of berries, roasted chicken legs glistening in glaze.
Children dart between legs with wooden swords, reenacting the fight I just had. Nella grabs me by the hand and spins me around like I'm some kind of hero.
"You saw it, right?" she tells a group of wide-eyed kids. "He moved like whoosh and then bam! Right on Varric's side!"
"I didn't bam anything," I say, but I'm laughing too hard to be convincing.
At some point, the crowd begins chanting again—not just my name, but the village's too: "Willowmere! Willowmere! Willowmere!" And in the middle of it, I stop.
I take it all in. The food. The firelight. The laughter. The faces that once looked at me with caution… now warm. This isn't just a party. It's proof.Proof that I belong.
Later, as the night winds down and the stars begin to crowd the sky, I sit at the edge of the village by the old well, cooling off with a mug of cold cider.
Varric joins me without a word, sitting on the stone rim beside me. We watch the glow of the fire behind us flicker between the houses.
He doesn't say anything for a while.
Then finally:
"You did good."
"…Thank you."
Silence again. Then he asks, "So. What now?"
I blink. "What?"
"You've completed your training. You've got your strength, your sword, your soulfire. What do you plan to do next?"
I look down at my hands. They don't tremble anymore. The calluses are thick now. The warmth in my palm comes when I call it.
"I don't know yet," I admit. "But I think… I want to see more. Of the world. Learn more than just what this place has shown me."
Varric nods slowly. "I figured as much."
"…Were you hoping I'd say something else?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he speaks low. "I hoped you'd give up the fight." I look at him, surprised.
"I hoped," he continues, "that you'd grow roots here. Stay hidden. Live soft. Never touch a blade again."
I don't know what to say to that. He looks up at the stars, face unreadable. "But that was selfish," he mutters. "I'm an old man. I wanted peace. And I started to see you as…"
He stops. Then, almost reluctantly: "…as the grandson I never had."
A strange feeling swells up inside me. I turn away quickly, suddenly embarrassed. "I don't know what to say to that," I whisper.
"You don't have to." We sit in silence again. But this one's softer. Like the fire after the burn.