fics I read

Thelor led Stephan out of the forge at first light. A light drizzle clung to Oldtown's narrow streets, but the air was warm. The boy limped beside him, one arm still stiff from his bruises. Despite the ache, Stephan kept pace, head high, eyes scanning every corner. Thelor noticed how he paused whenever he saw a child or a lone figure in an alley, as though ready to intervene should trouble spark. The blacksmith couldn't help rolling his eyes.

They passed rows of shuttered houses, each leaning against the next like tired old men. A few weary lanterns still glowed, their oil nearly spent. Oldtown never truly slept, but this was as close as it got to quiet. Thelor steered Stephan through a winding alley and out onto a wider street. Here, mud puddles reflected the faint morning sun, and worn cobbles poked through the muck.

A man on a donkey cart rattled by, heading for the city's smaller fish market. He glanced at Stephan's battered face and quickly turned away. Thelor released a short grunt, half amused, half annoyed.

"Come on," Thelor said, jerking his chin to a half-hidden archway. "Ranago's place is further in."

Stephan frowned. "He's a mercenary, right? Why is he here in Oldtown?"

Thelor's lips twitched. "He used to roam the Free Cities, but he got too old to fight in violent wars. Now, he's got ties to a gang leader. Head thug, they call him. He runs enforcement, collects debts. All hush-hush, mind you. But he owes me. So he'll train you."

Stephan's lips parted. "I won't do anything illegal."

Thelor snorted, stepping around a puddle. "No one's asking you to break laws, boy. You're here to learn. That's it."

They entered a cramped courtyard, overshadowed by tall, leaning buildings. The morning drizzle patted against rotted wood. A single iron brazier flickered near a side door. Thelor rapped his knuckles on the door, three sharp knocks. A moment passed, then it creaked open.

A lanky youth peered out. He wore ragged breeches and no shirt, a small dagger tucked at his belt. His gaze swept over Thelor and Stephan. He looked ready to sneer, but then recognized Thelor. He stepped back and mumbled a greeting, holding the door wide.

Thelor didn't return the courtesy. He pushed in, beckoning Stephan to follow.

The corridor beyond smelled of stale ale and lamp oil. Low voices drifted from behind a tattered curtain. An older man sat on a stool by the far wall, sharpening a curved blade with slow, deliberate strokes. He glanced up, gave a curt nod to Thelor, then motioned with his chin toward another door.

"Ranago's inside," the man muttered.

Thelor guided Stephan past him, pushing open the door. They stepped into a large room with a sawdust-covered floor. The walls bore racks of weapons: swords, spears, cudgels, axes, and even stranger implements—curved hooks, spiked gauntlets, barbed nets. A faint, bitter smell hung in the air, reminiscent of sweat and old blood. Thelor inhaled once, then exhaled. His eyes flicked to a lone figure who stood in the center of the floor, arms crossed.

Ranago was tall but not hulking. His hair was shaved close, revealing a faint scar curving along his scalp. He wore a simple sleeveless tunic and baggy trousers cinched at the waist. His bare arms were corded with muscle, each forearm crisscrossed by old scars. A single short sword dangled at his belt. He gave Thelor a slow grin, though his eyes remained cold.

"Thelor," Ranago said in a raspy voice. "What brings you here?"

Thelor grunted. "Got you a project."

He stepped aside, revealing Stephan. The boy straightened, swallowing once, his bruised face set in a mask of resolve. Ranago's gaze swept over him with mild curiosity. No flicker of sympathy. No smirk either, just a slow, appraising stare.

"This lad?" Ranago asked.

Stephan lifted his chin. "I'm Stephan."

Ranago waited, as if expecting more. Stephan didn't elaborate. Thelor cleared his throat.

"He wants to learn how to fight," Thelor said. "He's got a habit of pissing off bigger fools who beat him half to death. I told him you'd teach him a thing or two."

Ranago snorted. "Doesn't look like he can lift a sword."

Stephan's brow furrowed, but he didn't back down.

"I can learn," he said quietly. "I'm not strong, but I won't give up."

Ranago shrugged one shoulder. "Fine. You pay in coin or labor?"

Thelor tilted his head. "He'll work for me at the forge. As for fees… Well, I'm invoking that favor you owe me. He's too scrawny to pay otherwise."

Ranago glanced from Thelor to Stephan, then gave a single nod. "Agreed. But if the boy can't keep up, I toss him out."

Stephan didn't flinch. "I won't fail."

Thelor rolled his eyes at the boy's confidence. But he said nothing. He wanted Stephan to sink or swim on his own. Ranago beckoned them both to follow him deeper into the training space. Thelor trailed behind, arms crossed, more curious than he cared to admit.

Ranago led them to a row of weapons displayed on wooden stands. Thelor knew most were well-used practice pieces, dulled edges, battered grips. Still lethal in the wrong hands, but safer than fresh-forged steel. Ranago looked at Stephan, an eyebrow raised.

"What do you want to wield?"

Stephan moved closer, eyeing the swords. Long swords, short swords, curved blades from Essos. One vicious spiked mace. A few battered shields of various shapes leaned against the rack. He hesitated, then reached for a round metal shield that bore fresh hammer marks. Thelor recognized that it had probably come from some gang fight, dented and crudely fixed.

Ranago quirked a brow. "Shield? No weapon?"

Stephan's gaze flicked over the swords again, but he shook his head.

"I don't plan to kill," he said softly. "I just want to protect."

Thelor let out a low grunt. He recalled how Stephan had used that barrel lid to fend off bullies. The lad had a clear preference, it seemed.

Ranago exhaled through his nose. "You'll need something to strike back with."

"I'll use a staff," Stephan said, scanning the wooden rods laid out in a corner. He stepped over, lifting a rod of ash wood. It was as long as his arm and half again, thin but sturdy. He tested its weight, tapping it against the floor. Then he looked up, "This is enough."

Ranago's lips tightened, but he nodded. "You fight grown men with that, you'll break an arm. Or they'll break yours."

Stephan met his gaze.

"Then I'll try harder." He paused, glancing at the shield. "This is all I need."

Thelor watched, arms folded, breath held. That damn fool. But there was something admirable in the boy's conviction. Even Ranago seemed intrigued. The older mercenary rubbed his jaw, then nodded once.

"Fine. You want to defend yourself and others, without bloodshed. That's your choice." He gestured to the center of the room. "Stand there. Try to take a stance."

Stephan took a breath. He moved to the open space, shield gripped in one hand, rod in the other. He raised the shield awkwardly, rod held behind him. The posture was all wrong—knees locked, back hunched. Ranago grimaced.

"That's a quick way to get stabbed. Bend your knees. Keep your weight balanced. Move that shield up and forward–keep it too close to your body and it stops working as intended."

Stephan tried to adjust. Thelor could see the stiffness in his limbs, the uncertainty in his eyes. But the boy pressed his lips together, determined. His battered body twitched with each movement, clearly still sore.

Ranago stepped up, tapping Stephan's shield with a wooden practice sword. Stephan flinched. Thelor almost rolled his eyes. This would be a long process.

"Relax," Ranago commanded. "Let your arms flow. A shield shouldn't be dead weight. It's part of your defense. Keep it alive, shifting to block."

Stephan swallowed, nodding jerkily. He shifted his stance again, bracing the rod behind him. Thelor noted how each slight correction caused Stephan to wobble. The boy had no real sense of balance yet.

"I'll attack slow," Ranago said. "Block me with that shield. Then respond with your staff. Use it like a short spear, or a baton, or both. We'll see which suits you."

Stephan set his jaw. "Ready."

Ranago lunged with the wooden blade. It was a gentle push, but Stephan's shield barely caught it in time. The impact made him stagger. He tried to swing the rod in retaliation, but his step was off, so the rod whiffed through the air.

Ranago stepped back. "Slower. Don't flail. Each motion should flow to the next."

Again, he attacked. Stephan blocked more solidly this time. The shield's rim clanged against Ranago's practice sword. Stephan jabbed with the rod, aiming for Ranago's side. Thelor saw the boy's foot slip on the sawdust. He lost his center, stumbling. Ranago parried the rod easily, tapping Stephan's forehead. Stephan blinked, frustration flickering in his eyes.

"Let your shield guide the fight," Ranago instructed. "You defend, then you respond. Don't be in a rush to strike. Survive first. I'll teach you to strike later"

Thelor grunted approval. That was good advice for a whelp who valued defense over offense. But Stephan's eagerness threatened to undermine him. The boy pressed his lips together and tried again, raising the shield, bracing himself.

They repeated the drill over and over, each time Stephan fumbling a bit less. Thelor watched as sweat trickled down the boy's temples, mingling with fading bruises. The staff wobbled in Stephan's grip, but he refused to yield. Even when Ranago's blade struck his shoulder or smacked his thigh, Stephan just hissed in pain and resumed.

Time passed. Thelor noticed that each pass ended with Stephan breathing harder, but still standing. Ranago remained calm, methodical, never praising, rarely scolding. He would show a flaw in Stephan's posture, then demonstrate the correction. If Stephan didn't comply, Ranago would knock him down or twist the shield away. Over and over, until the lesson sank in.

Eventually, after an hour or so, Ranago stepped back, lowering his practice sword. "Enough. Rest. We'll do more tomorrow."

Stephan's chest heaved. He looked like he wanted to continue, but he nodded. He set the rod aside carefully, as though it were precious. Thelor approached, handing him a waterskin. Stephan mumbled thanks, gulping greedily.

Ranago watched with folded arms.

"You're slow, boy. You have no technique. But you have heart." He paused, flicking his gaze to Thelor. "I've trained many recruits. Most cry or rage when they fail. You just get up and keep trying."

Stephan wiped water from his chin.

"I can't afford to stop," he said softly. "People need help."

Ranago's lips twitched in a faint, humorless smile.

"Don't let that kill you." He jerked his chin toward the door. "You'll come back at dawn each day. Same time, same place. We'll train until midday. In the evenings, you work at Thelor's forge. That's the deal."

Stephan nodded. "I understand."

Thelor gave a gruff snort. "Don't be late. Ranago hates waiting."

Stephan's mouth curved in a small, determined smile. "I won't be."

They left the training room and stepped back into the courtyard. The morning drizzle had eased to a light mist. Thelor led Stephan through Oldtown's winding lanes, passing shops that had just opened. The forge wasn't far, but he noticed the boy limping slightly. The staff had evidently taxed him more than he'd admit.

"Can you manage the forge tonight?" Thelor asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Stephan inhaled, wincing. "Yes. I'll manage."

"Don't pass out. Or drop the tongs. If you faint, I'll dump you outside with the trash."

Stephan gave a tired chuckle, though a grimace flickered across his face. "I'll do my best, Thelor. Promise."

Thelor said nothing, quickening his steps. He led Stephan to a side lane where the forge's door stood propped open. A swirl of heat wafted out, mixing with the damp air. The low rumble of the furnace comforted Thelor, reminding him of simpler tasks: shaping metal, forging nails, hammering out horseshoes. Solid, predictable work.

He gestured for Stephan to enter. "Go on. Clean the coals. Check the bellows. Then you can rest. After that, we have orders to fill."

Stephan nodded, pushing past the beaded curtain into the dim interior. Thelor followed. The forge glowed in the corner, embers casting dancing shadows on the walls. Tools dangled from hooks. A half-finished iron gate leaned against a side bench, awaiting final rivets.

Stephan trudged to the furnace, took up a rake, and began clearing spent coals. Thelor eyed him for a moment. The boy moved gingerly, occasionally wincing, but he refused to pause. A relentless sort of spirit. The blacksmith found himself grudgingly impressed.

"You'll be exhausted," Thelor said, his voice rough.

Stephan shrugged. "I can handle it."

A memory of the boy in that alley flashed through Thelor's mind. Getting up again and again, battered but not broken. The blacksmith turned away, rummaging for a new pair of tongs. A faint, almost-smile tugged at his lips. The lad would either burn himself out or become something remarkable.

After a short time, Stephan had the coals tidied, sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. He stood, ragged breathing filling the quiet. Thelor jerked a thumb at a bench. "Take five minutes. Then we'll start on that gate's hinges."

Stephan nodded, collapsing onto the bench with a sigh. He pressed a hand to his ribs. But he didn't whine. He just closed his eyes briefly, as though savoring the moment of rest.

Thelor pretended not to notice. Instead, he stoked the forge, adding fresh charcoal. The flames leaped, casting bright orange tongues that danced along the metal grate. He hammered a piece of scrap iron, listening to the ring of steel. Solid, dependable noise.

"Why do you help me?" Stephan's voice broke the silence. It sounded uncertain, almost hesitant.

Thelor paused, tongs gripping the iron. He stared at the embers. "Because you're too damn stubborn to stop. And I'd rather you not die on my doorstep. That's all."

Stephan let out a short breath, maybe a faint laugh. "You're more caring than you admit, Thelor."

Thelor snorted. "Shut up, boy. Check the bellows."