Being a warrior wasn't easy, of course not... but it's a duty of every man in the tribe, that once the age of 20 is reached, you'll be trained to become a warrior, just like how it happened to me. The morning air feels cool against my skin as I remember how I never really wanted this path, but followed it anyway to honor my father, now an old blacksmith with hands still steady enough to forge fine blades.

Now, at 28 years old, I stand before him, my father's eyes crinkling with amusement as he delivers the news. "You're training someone?" My voice cracks slightly with surprise, the wooden bench beneath me feeling suddenly uncomfortable as the fire crackles in our small home.

The next day's fog clings to the trees like a damp blanket as I make my way to meet him. The scent of pine hangs heavy in the air, mixed with the earthy aroma of the forest floor. When he opens his door, his smile breaks through the mist like sunlight, bright and warm enough to make my heart stutter in my chest.

We walk to our training spot by the river, the sound of water rushing over smooth stones creating a natural rhythm that seems to match the quickening beat of my heart. Days blur together in a haze of clashing weapons, sweat, and laughter. I find myself looking forward to our sessions more than is proper, cherishing the way his eyes light up when he masters a new technique or how he worries over even the smallest scratch on my arm.

Today started like any other – I left him practicing spear techniques while I fetched more supplies from the tribe. The first fat raindrops hit my face halfway back,冰冷 against my skin as the sky darkens suddenly. Thunder rumbles in the distance as I break into a run, anxiety coiling in my stomach.

I find him beneath our usual oak tree, his body curled protectively around his spear, rain soaking his hair and clothing. The sight of him sleeping so peacefully despite the storm sends an unfamiliar warmth spreading through my chest. "He's... sleeping?" I whisper, carefully kneeling beside him. The scent of wet earth and pine clings to him, mixing with the faint aroma of the herbs he uses in his hair.

Without thinking, I lift him gently into my arms, his body warm and surprisingly light. His head falls against my shoulder, soft breaths tickling my neck as I stand. "Gotta get you home," I mutter, adjusting my grip before starting back toward the village, the rain plastering my own hair to my face as my heart pounds with a confusing mix of concern and something much deeper.