Volunteer

"I will go into the woods and hunt the beast," you say.

The inn falls silent for a moment, then erupts in murmurs. Some men nod approvingly, especially the sheepherders who have lost their flocks and the woodcutters who must venture into the forest each day. Others eye you with skepticism, doubting a farm boy’s chances against a monster.

Oswin, the mayor, claps you on the back, his grip firm. "Brave lad," he says. "Dunford will remember this."

Your father, Beron, says nothing. But when you meet his gaze, you see something rare: pride. A subtle nod, a flicker of approval in his otherwise stern expression. It is more than you have ever gotten from him.

Lillian, however, does not share their enthusiasm. She stands near the hearth, arms folded tightly across her chest. When your eyes meet, she shakes her head, worry etched into every line of her face. You know what she wants to say: Don’t go. But she does not speak the words aloud.

Before you set out, Farlen, a retired guardsman, pulls you aside. He is an old soldier, his face lined with the scars of forgotten battles. Though age has slowed him, there is still strength in his frame and sharpness in his gaze.

"You’ll need more than a bow if you mean to face whatever’s out there," he says. "Come. I’ll teach you the basics of swordsmanship."

You follow him to the back of his cottage, where an old training post stands, weathered by years of disuse. Against the wall rest two swords, both long neglected, their hilts wrapped in worn leather. One is pure iron, heavy and unyielding. The other is steel, lighter, keener, and better balanced.

Farlen watches you closely. "Which one do you want, lad?"

You hesitate. The iron sword is solid, dependable, a weapon that won’t break easily. The steel sword is sharper, quicker, more elegant in its design. Both have seen better days, but either will serve better than bare hands.

Your fingers hover over the hilts as you weigh your choice.

Iron or steel?