World of ash

Six

One year later; Asha 15 years old

The freezing weather is turning my nose and hands red. I wipe under my nose with the back of my hand, my heavy breathing visible in the cold air.

My arms burn with each strike I inflict on the training dummy. The wooden sword is heavy in my hand. I would never have guessed that I was good with a sword.

I used to think that I was usless at everything, but turns out that i'm not so bad at swinging a sword around.

Over the last year, I have trained hard. By the time it's time for bed, my body is always aching, and my mind is running through different moves. In the first weeks, I focused on building up my muscles, tolerance, and self-defense skills.

I mastered the use of a dagger and a bow. It was hard, but I never lost my focus and kept practicing. I would never have guessed that I had a talent for these things.

My next step was learning how to use a sword. The swordmaster gave me a wooden sword and told me to begin.

———

The swordmaster, a tall figure with a stern face and sharp eyes, watched my every move closely. Each day, he had me repeat the basic strikes and footwork over and over again. My arms felt like they were on fire, my muscles screaming in protest. Yet, with every correction he made, I felt myself improving, inch by inch.

"Again," he commanded, his voice cutting through the cold air like a blade. "Your stance is still too wide. Tighten your grip. Focus on balance."

I adjusted my stance, feeling the ground beneath my feet and the weight of the wooden sword in my hand. I swung again, putting all my strength into the motion. The sword cracked against the training dummy, the impact vibrating up my arm.

"Better," the swordmaster said with a slight nod. His approval was rare, and I felt a flicker of pride ignite within me.

Hours passed, and sweat soaked through my clothes despite the freezing weather. The swordmaster drilled me relentlessly, pointing out every flaw in my technique and pushing me to correct them. His critiques were harsh but fair, each one driving me to push beyond my limits.

At times, I felt frustration bubble up inside me. The sword seemed impossibly heavy, the moves too complex. My arms trembled, and my legs wobbled under the strain. But then I would catch a glimpse of the swordmaster's expression—steady, focused, expecting more from me. It was as if he saw something in me that I hadn't yet discovered myself.

"Again," he would say, and I would push myself to try once more.

Gradually, I began to notice changes. My movements grew more fluid, my strikes more precise. The sword no longer felt like a foreign object in my hands but an extension of my arm. My muscles, once weak and aching, had grown stronger. Each swing came with greater confidence, each step with more purpose.

"Remember," the swordmaster said one day as I landed a perfect strike on the dummy, "the sword is not just a weapon. It is a tool of discipline, a test of your will. Master it, and you master yourself."

I nodded, understanding his words in a way I hadn't before. This was more than just training. It was a journey—a journey to discover my strength, my limits, and who I could become.

The days continued, each one filled with sweat, effort, and perseverance. And as I trained, I knew I was not just learning to wield a sword; I was learning to fight for myself, to stand tall even when the world around me was cold and unyielding.

And in those moments of clarity, with the swordmaster's watchful eyes upon me, I felt something else too—a sense of belonging, a sense of purpose. I was no longer just a novice with a wooden sword. I was becoming a warrior, one stroke at a time.