The soft whisper of morning rustled through the old wooden shutters, and golden beams of sunlight fell across Eamon's face like the gentle brushstrokes of a waking world. His eyes fluttered open, squinting against the warmth, and the first thing he heard was the rustling of leaves and the chaotic chatter of birds in the trees nearby. Somewhere in the distance, a fox barked sharply, and small woodland critters scurried about just outside the window. The chirps and calls felt louder than usual, nature orchestrating a melody that was both peaceful and overwhelming at once.
Eamon groaned slightly and shifted in bed, drawing the thin blanket tighter around himself. The smell of damp earth and morning dew drifted in through the open window, mingling with the faint scent of herbs from the nearby apothecary shelf.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, rubbed his eyes, and muttered groggily.
"Grandpa, what is this commotion in the morning? Did you bring home animals?"
The words slipped from his mouth before he had time to think. And then, the silence that followed stung more than the morning chill. The memory rushed back like a tide swallowing the shore.
His throat tightened.
Oh… I forgot that you are not here anymore, Grandpa.
He sat there for a moment, eyes watering, the ache in his chest dull but constant. His hand moved slowly to his cheek, wiping away the wetness that had gathered.
With a quiet breath, he pushed the blanket aside, stood up, and made his way into the hallway, each step steadying his breath, each moment stitching together the torn pieces of his morning.
In the hall, the hearth was already lit. The comforting crackle of firewood mixed with the clinking of ceramic pots. Arvin stood near the table, stirring something that steamed from a clay pot, earthy and sharp in scent.
"Good morning, child. Hope you had a good sleep," Arvin said, glancing at him with a warm, aged smile.
Eamon rubbed the back of his neck and yawned. "Good morning, Grandpa Arvin. Yeah… I slept fine. But the cold—it hasn't really gone away yet. My nose still feels like it's been clogged by rocks."
Arvin chuckled, the deep sound rumbling in his chest like distant thunder. "Well, that's expected. This region has a biting cold even in early spring. But don't worry. I've just the thing brewing for that stubborn cold of yours. Some chamell root, mountain thistle, and a dash of black bark. It'll clear you up by noon."
"That sounds… slightly terrifying," Eamon said, sniffing at the air.
Arvin grinned. "A terrifying cure for a terrifying cold."
Eamon chuckled faintly, grateful for the warmth in Arvin's tone, the way he filled silence without pressing too deep into the sorrow that still lingered like smoke.
"Finish your tea when it's done, and then…" Arvin paused, turning with a mysterious glint in his eye. "I have something for you."
Eamon perked up slightly, eyebrow raised. "What… what is it?"
Arvin waved a hand, brushing off the question with a smile. "Just come with me."
Eamon followed the old man out the back door, the creaky wood groaning underfoot as they stepped into the garden. But today, it wasn't just herbs and vegetables. The earth had been shaped into a small open arena of dirt, flattened and cleared, and standing tall in the centre were six humanoid figures.
The figures were roughly man-sized and made of solid, compacted soil. Their eyes were hollow divots, their bodies rough but detailed, like warriors pulled from the land itself. Each puppet clutched a wooden sword, broad and well-balanced, cut from strong bark and shaped like proper training blades.
"Whoa…" Eamon murmured, eyes wide.
Arvin stepped forward proudly, arms crossed over his chest. "Well, your grandfather used to tell me about your sword-fighting skills. Said you'd been training since you could hold a stick. Let's see how sharp you've kept those instincts."
Eamon turned to him, a bit confused. "You're serious?"
Before he could protest further, Arvin was already handing him a wooden sword, almost identical to the ones the puppets held.
Eamon blinked, "Wait, right now—"
He didn't get to finish. With a quick gesture of Arvin's fingers, the six soil puppets shifted and then charged at once.
"And yes, no use of magic. Use only your sword", shouted Arvin.
"Wha—okay!" Eamon exclaimed, barely managing to grab the sword with both hands in time.
The first puppet came fast, swinging downward with an overhead slash. Eamon raised his sword with both arms, catching the blow with a solid clack of wood. The puppet's strength was rough but manageable. With a grunt, he shoved the puppet back with his shoulder.
The second one lunged at his flank. Eamon ducked, pivoted low, and rolled around the puppet's back before bringing the flat of his sword down in a clean strike across its spine. The puppet crumbled into a pile of dirt and dust.
The third came at him head-on, thrusting with a stiff jab. Eamon twisted to the side, used the puppet's own forward motion, and landed a sharp kick to its midsection. The clay chest caved in with a crunch, and the puppet fell apart in pieces.
Before he could breathe, the remaining three circled around him in formation, as if guided by some silent strategy.
Eamon tightened his grip, eyes narrowing. "Alright then…"
One came at his left. He spun his blade and smacked the sword away before bringing the handle into its face. The second came from behind; Eamon ducked and slashed upward in a backward arc, sending the puppet's head flying. The third one tried a sweeping motion aimed at his legs, but he leapt, landed above it with a two-handed grip, and brought the wooden blade down like a hammer.
The dirt figures collapsed, crumbling into loose soil.
A soft wind blew through the training yard, carrying the scent of earth and sweat.
Eamon exhaled, lowering the sword slowly, the rush of movement leaving a faint smile on his lips.
He turned toward Arvin, who stood near the door with a proud, knowing expression.
Eamon raised an eyebrow and grinned. "So? Mind telling the point of all this?"