Toby had begun his journey with the fire of determination burning deep in his heart. Each morning before the sun crested the eastern mountains, he was already on his feet, running barefoot through the uneven trails of Drury. The chill of dawn bit at his skin, dew soaking the hem of his trousers, but he welcomed the discomfort—it meant he was getting stronger.
He would begin by stretching beside the old pine at the edge of the village, then jog past the stone bridge, greeting the same birds that sang above the riverbank. His routine grew more intense with each passing week: climbing trees with weighted sacks, leaping over fences, practicing stances with a wooden staff that was longer than he was tall. When the midday sun beat down hard, he trained in its heat, daring himself not to faint. He'd fall, scrape his knees, bleed—but always rise again.
At night, he read old books on knights and legends, sometimes by candlelight, other times by the fireplace in Berta's alehouse after everyone had gone to sleep. He wrote down lessons in a journal he kept hidden under his mattress, filling its pages with sketches of sword techniques and imagined battle strategies.
Children his age played in the fields, laughing and rolling in the grass. Toby smiled at them but didn't join. His purpose burned too hot for play. Each drop of sweat was a step toward something greater. He would become a paladin—not for glory, but to be the kind of hero he ever wanted to be.
He trained with a discipline beyond his years, carrying logs across streams, hoisting buckets of water up steep hills, and sprinting up rugged slopes until his legs trembled. The villagers often watched him with curiosity, some shaking their heads at the sight of a mere boy straining like a soldier.
"That lad's got fire in him," an old farmer once said. "But fire burns both ways."
One humid afternoon, Toby found himself running through a dense part of the forest, sweat dripping down his back, muscles aching. His breath came in shallow bursts, but he didn't stop. He pushed deeper into the woods until suddenly—rustling from the bushes ahead.
He froze. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. Slowly, he reached for a sturdy branch lying on the path, gripping it like a sword. His eyes scanned the underbrush.
Then—a rabbit darted out. Toby exhaled sharply, laughing nervously. "Just a rabbit," he whispered.
But before he could move again, a figure dropped from the tree canopy above with a heavy thud.
Toby jumped back. "Who are you? Are you... an Ashkin?"
The man smirked, ragged and unshaven. "Yes, I am. And lucky for me, a lost little boy wandered into my woods. I could ransom you for a few coins."
Toby raised his stick, trembling slightly. "Don't you dare lay a hand on me! I've been training. I can fight. You'll regret it."
The man laughed heartily. "Training, huh? With that twig?"
Two more men stepped out from the trees, surrounding him. They circled him like wolves around prey.
Toby swung his stick with all his might, trying to fend them off. "Stay back!"
But they dodged easily, mocking him.
"Look at him, thinking he's a warrior," one sneered.
"Barely taller than a turnip," another chuckled.
Then they attacked. One grabbed the stick and snapped it in half like a twig, grinning as the pieces fell to the forest floor. Before Toby could react, a fist smashed into his gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, and stumbled backward.
The other two assailants moved in, landing kicks to his ribs and legs, each blow drawing grunts of pain from the boy. Toby tried to shield himself with his arms, but they were pulled aside. A boot struck his face, sending him sprawling. Blood oozed from his nose and lip, mixing with the dirt and leaves beneath him.
They didn't stop. One held him by the collar while the others took turns, fists crashing down like hail. His world became a blur of fists, boots, and pain. Stars danced in his vision. Each strike made it harder to breathe, harder to think. But through the agony, he clenched his fists, refusing to cry out.
"Still got fight in him," one sneered. "Let's see how long that lasts."
Another blow came—a brutal kick to his side—and he screamed, the sound raw and hoarse. His small body curled inward as they laughed above him, towering and merciless.
"I think this brat is worthless," one said, spitting. "He's just the orphan of that old hag."
Toby, face swollen, lips bleeding, growled, "Don't... don't call Berta an old hag."
He tried to stand, only to be kicked again. His vision blurred, darkness creeping in.
Then—
"You three are disgusting," a familiar voice rang out, calm and chilling. "Ashkins beating a child?"
Beau stepped into the clearing, arms folded, eyes narrow.
"Beau!" Toby gasped, trying to sit up. "I've got this under control."
Beau raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I see. Playing dead is your new combat tactic? Brilliant."
One of the attackers laughed. "You shouldn't interfere with our training, fatso."
Beau's eye twitched. "Fatso? You mean me?"
"Who else here looks like a ham?" the man mocked.
Bang! Beau's fist collided with the man's face, sending him flying.
"I know I'm fat," Beau growled, "but don't you ever call me fatso."
The second man froze. "Wait... you're Beau. Right hand of Lior."
Beau turned slowly, glaring.
The third man unsheathed his sword. "I don't care who you are! You'll regret interfering!"
But before his blade could rise, Beau lunged. A powerful uppercut launched the man into the air. He crashed into the bushes with a groan.
Only the last man remained. He dropped to his knees. "Mercy! Please!"
Beau stepped forward. "Get lost."
The man scrambled to his feet and vanished into the trees.
Toby stood shakily, left arm limp and bloodied.
Beau rushed to him. "Sit, sit," he said, guiding Toby to a fallen log.
They sat in silence for a moment. Beau opened a satchel and pulled out a large roasted leg of meat, munching casually.
"I thought you all left," Toby said, watching him.
"Chief Lior asked me to return and fetch an old box he forgot at Berta's," Beau said between bites.
He pulled out a dusty wooden box and set it between them. It was old, but something inside shimmered.
Toby stared at it. A faint glow pulsed from the seams.
"What's inside?" he asked.
"Dunno. Wasn't told to open it. Just carry it."
Unable to resist, Toby reached out and touched the latch. It clicked. The lid lifted.
A brilliant glow bathed the forest. Floating inside was a strange, radiant stone, shifting colors like a prism. As Toby leaned closer, it lifted into the air.
"Beau! It's floating!"
Beau turned, eyes widening. "Wait—don't touch it!"
But it was too late. The glow darkened into mist and surged toward Toby, surrounding him, entering his chest like smoke. He screamed and collapsed.
"Toby!" Beau ran to him, catching him before he hit the ground.
Toby gasped. "I... I didn't mean to... I just wanted to see... and then... what's happening to me?!"
Beau whistled. His horse galloped up. He lifted Toby onto its back.
"We're getting you back to Berta. Now."
They rode fast. The wind tore at them, trees blurred past. Toby clutched Beau's cloak, barely conscious.
In the village, Beau dismounted quickly and carried Toby into the alehouse. He laid him on a chair and pulled Berta aside.
"What happened?" Berta asked, voice shaking.
"The Heartstone chose him," Beau said. "He opened the box. The power... it took him."
Berta's eyes went wide. "No. No, he's just a boy. He's mine! I raised him for a normal life!"
"I know, Berta. But the Heartstone chooses. It chose Toby."
As they argued, a shadow near Toby began to swirl, twisting unnaturally. He screamed.
Beau rushed to him. "Forgive me, kid," he said, then knocked him out with a precise strike to the neck.
Toby collapsed. The shadow stopped moving.
"Did you just kill Toby?!" Berta cried.
"Of course not. He just lost control. The Heartstone's power is ancient—wild and overwhelming. It's like a flood in a boy's cup; he needs guidance to carry it without being drowned by it. He needs time. And training. You have to help him, Berta. Raise him not just to be strong—but to be good. The kind of good that doesn't need a blade to earn respect."
Berta looked down at the unconscious boy, eyes filled with worry—and love. Her lips quivered as she brushed a blood-streaked lock of hair from Toby's forehead. The boy looked so small, so fragile in that moment. Her heart ached with fear, but also swelled with fierce resolve.
"Then we start tomorrow," she said quietly, voice steady. "He'll need all of us. He'll need more than just strength—he'll need a compass, a home, and a reason to stay human. And I'll be all that for him. I swear it."