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the morning sun filtered through the training grounds, casting a warm glow over the sparring squires. kinich, now fourteen, moved with a practiced ease, his every step and swing deliberate and powerful. the past few years had been relentless: training at dawn, drills until noon, sparring matches that pushed him to his limits. his body had changed, too; he was taller, stronger, the thin, wiry frame of his childhood now defined with muscle. he wasn’t the boy who defended himself with scratches and bites anymore.
sir tenoch watched from the sidelines, arms crossed and a rare smile on his wrinkled face. “good form, kinich,” he called, nodding in approval. “watch your footing, though.”
“yes, sir,” kinich replied, a small smile tugging at his lips as he straightened and readied himself for the next round. he was used to sir tenoch’s critiques and learned to value them more than any empty praise.
the sun climbed higher, burning away the morning chill. the sound of swords clashing and the shouts of young men filled the air. but amidst the noise, kinich’s mind drifted. today was his fourteenth birthday. for most, birthdays were a time of celebration, laughter, gifts, and feasting. for him, they had always been quiet, almost forgotten, marked only by memories of his mother’s whispered songs and a single slice of cake shared in secrecy. his father saw no use in celebrations. “a waste of time and resources,” he always said, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand.
“kinich!” called out a voice, snapping him back to the present. one of the older squires, ororon, waved him over. “we’re done for the morning. sir tenoch said we can take a break.”
kinich nodded, brushing the sweat from his forehead and catching his breath. he followed ororon to where the rest of the squadron gathered, a circle of rough laughter and easy camaraderie. but as he approached, the crowd fell silent. eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement, and the boys shuffled aside to reveal a table at the center, covered with a plain cloth.
“what’s going on?” kinich asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.
kazuha, another of the squires, grinned as he presented a cake—small and imperfect, with messy frosting and an even messier message in careful, delicate handwriting: happy birthday, kinich.
