Dead man Walking: The Price of Tommorow

The wooden sword felt heavy in Kyres' hands, his breath coming out in white puffs in the pre-dawn chill. His father stood before him in the mist-covered training yard, barefoot despite the frost-covered grass, wearing the same weathered smile he always had during their morning sessions.

"Again," his father said, voice soft but carrying the unmistakable authority that Kyres remembered from his stories of the city guard. "And this time, feel the weight shift before you move."

Kyres nodded, adjusting his stance the way he'd been taught. Left foot forward, right foot back, shoulders loose but ready. His arms ached from two hours of drills, but he knew better than to complain. Not when Shalia had already completed her training and was probably helping old Ms. Marron with the morning bread by now.

The wooden sword whistled through the air as he stepped forward, trying to mirror the fluid motion his father had demonstrated countless times. For a moment, he felt it - that perfect balance his father always talked about, the harmony between breath and movement that the city guards supposedly mastered.

Then his foot slipped on the wet grass, and the moment shattered.

His father caught him before he hit the ground, one hand grasping Kyres' collar while the other smoothly disarmed him. The wooden sword went spinning, embedding itself point-first in the soft earth nearby.

"Better," his father said, helping him up. "You found it for a moment there. Did you feel it?"

Kyres brushed grass from his knees, trying not to show his frustration. "The balance thing?"

"The Resonance." His father's eyes grew distant for a moment, the way they always did when something reminded him of his past life. "In the city, they had fancy words for it. Theories about ancient magic and noble bloodlines. But out here?" He gestured at the misty training yard, the distant mountains, the sleeping town. "Out here it's simpler. It's just about finding your place in the world's flow."

A sharp whistle cut through the morning air - Shalia's signal that breakfast was ready. His father's expression softened further at the sound.

"You're doing well, son. Better than I was at your age." He retrieved the wooden sword, examining its tip before handing it back. "Now go help your sister. And remember-"

"I know, I know," Kyres grinned. "Don't tell her you let me train longer than usual."

____________

The warmth of their small house hit Kyres like an embrace after the morning chill. The scent of fresh bread and herbs filled the air, and he could hear Shalia humming an old tune their father used to sing when they were younger. Something about soldiers marching home.

"You're late," Shalia called from the kitchen without turning around. She was working at their wooden table, her dark hair tied back in its usual practical braid. "And don't even think about sitting down like that. I can smell the grass stains from here."

Kyres glanced down at his mud-spattered clothes. "How do you always know?"

"Because I was twelve once too." She finally turned, and despite her stern tone, her eyes crinkled with amusement. "And unlike you, little brother, I actually learned from falling in the mud."

Their father ducked through the doorway behind Kyres, having to bend slightly despite the house being built to accommodate his height. "Your sister has you there, son. Though if I remember correctly, someone once fell into Widow Marron's pig pen trying to perfect her footwork."

"Father!" Shalia's cheeks reddened, but she was fighting back a smile. "That was supposed to be our secret."

"Was it?" He settled into his chair at the head of the table, the wood creaking familiarly under his weight. "Must be getting forgetful in my old age."

Kyres quickly changed his clothes and washed up, knowing from experience that Shalia wouldn't serve him otherwise. When he returned, she was setting down earthenware bowls of steaming porridge, each topped with honey and dried berries - a rare treat they usually saved for rest days.

"The honey's from Widow Marron," Shalia explained, noticing Kyres' surprise. "She insisted on giving us a jar after Father fixed her roof last week."

Their father smiled into his bowl. "That woman would empty her pantry if we let her. Speaking of which, did either of you help her with her morning baking today?"

"I did," Shalia said, sitting down with her own portion. "She's teaching me how to make that seed bread you like." She glanced at Kyres with a teasing smile. "Someone had to make up for our brother sleeping in again."

"I wasn't sleeping!" Kyres protested. "I was training!"

"Is that what they call falling in the mud now?"

Their father's deep laugh filled the small room. "Peace, you two. Shalia, your brother's working hard. And Kyres, your sister's already mastered what I'm teaching you now - at your age, no less."

Kyres stirred his porridge, trying not to look too sullen. "She doesn't have to remind me every morning."

"No," Shalia agreed, her voice softening. "But someone has to keep you humble. Besides..." She reached across the table and ruffled his hair, ignoring his attempts to dodge. "What kind of big sister would I be if I didn't tease you little brother?"

"Little?" Kyres ducked away from her hand, almost knocking over his bowl. "I'm almost as tall as you now!"

"Emphasis on 'almost,'" Shalia smirked, then turned to their father. "Though he's right. He's growing like a weed. We might need to let out his clothes again soon."

Their father nodded thoughtfully, breaking off a piece of bread. "Reminds me of someone else at that age. Your mother shot up so fast one summer, we had to trade half our vegetables for new dresses."

The mention of their mother settled over the table like morning mist - not heavy enough to dampen spirits, but present all the same. Kyres watched Shalia's face carefully. She always said she remembered their mother's laugh, though Kyres himself had no memories to hold onto.

"Did she really?" Shalia asked quietly, her teasing forgotten. She always hungered for these small details about their mother, collecting them like precious stones.

"Oh yes." Their father's eyes crinkled at the corners, the way they always did when he spoke of her. "She was forever outgrowing things. Clothes, shoes... even her garden. Every season she'd say 'This is enough space,' and every season she'd be out there at dawn, clearing more ground for her herbs."

"Like the mint by the back wall?" Kyres asked around a mouthful of porridge.

"Kyres, swallow before you speak," Shalia scolded automatically, but her heart wasn't in it. She was focused on their father, waiting for more.

"That mint?" Their father chuckled. "That was actually a mistake. Your mother meant to plant it in pots, but she dropped a few clippings. By the next spring, it had taken over that whole corner. She used to say it was the most delicious mistake she ever made."

"That's why you never let me pull it up," Shalia realized. "Even when it threatens to strangle the sage."

"Hmm." Their father took another bite of bread, chewing thoughtfully. "Though speaking of the sage, I noticed it's looking a bit yellow around the edges. Your mother had a trick for that - something with eggshells, if I remember right..."

"Crushed and scattered around the base," Shalia nodded. "Widow Marron taught me. She said Mother showed her years ago."

"The old remedies get passed along," their father smiled. "Just like your mother's recipes. That bread you're learning to make? That was hers too, originally."

"Speaking of recipes," their father said, scraping the last honey from his bowl, "what's everyone's plans for today? The weather's holding fair enough."

"I promised to help Miller Joran with his ledgers," Shalia said, standing to clear the bowls. "He swears the numbers aren't adding up right, but I think he's just getting too proud to wear his reading glasses."

Their father's mustache twitched. "That man's been 'misplacing' his glasses since before you were born. Though I suspect he just likes having a pretty young lady help him with his accounts."

"Father!" Shalia's cheeks colored as she splashed water into the washing basin. "He's just lonely since his daughter moved to the river township."

"And you, son?" Their father turned to Kyres, who was using a piece of bread to mop up the last traces of honey from his bowl.

"Hunt's meeting at the square to practice archery. He said his father got him a new bow and promised to let us try it."

"Hunt, eh?" Their father scratched his chin thoughtfully. "The tanner's boy? Good lad, steady hands. Though..." He fixed Kyres with a knowing look. "I trust you'll finish your chores first?"

Kyres slumped in his chair. "But Hunt said early morning is best for archery! Something about the wind-"

"The wind will still be there after you've helped Widow Marron stack her firewood," Shalia interrupted, not turning from her washing. "You promised her yesterday, remember?"

"I didn't forget," Kyres muttered, though he had. "But-"

"Tell you what," their father stood, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. "Help me repair Carpenter Owen's fence first - shouldn't take more than an hour with both of us working. Then you can split your time between Widow Marron's wood and your archery practice. Sound fair?"

Kyres brightened. Working with his father was always better than doing chores alone, and Carpenter Owen usually had interesting stories about his days as a ship's wright before settling in the village.

"Deal!" Kyres jumped up, nearly knocking his chair over in his enthusiasm. "I'll get the tools!"

"Walking feet!" Shalia called after him, shaking her head as he thundered up the stairs to the storage loft. The sound of rummaging and clanking metal followed almost immediately.

Their father chuckled, buckling on his worn leather work belt. Morning light streamed through the kitchen window, catching the gray in his beard. "Sure you don't need help with the miller's books?"

"I can handle old Joran," Shalia said, drying her hands on her apron. She peered out the window at the village coming to life. "Though you might want to take the long way to Owen's. Looks like Trader Benn's cart broke an axle right in front of the smithy."

A small crowd had already gathered around the stranded cart, its contents of clay pots and winter vegetables scattered across the dirt road. The smith's apprentice was gesturing animatedly while Benn's wife directed traffic around the mess. Their voices drifted through the morning air, mixing with the sounds of chickens and the distant bleating of sheep.

"That's the third time this month," their father mused. "Maybe I should-"

"No." Shalia's tone was firm. "You already fixed his cart twice for free. Let him pay the smith properly this time."

Kyres came thundering back down, father's toolbox clutched in his arms, leather straps trailing behind him like angry snakes. "Ready! I got everything - the saw, the hammer, the good nails from-"

"Boots," Shalia interrupted, pointing at his bare feet.

"But-"

"Boots," their father echoed, though his eyes twinkled. "Unless you want splinters like last time?"

Kyres sighed dramatically but thumped back upstairs. Through the ceiling, they could hear him muttering about bossy sisters and unnecessary footwear.