Snow fell like quiet whispers against Caleb's skin as he practiced the familiar stances he'd learned since childhood. The breath rushed through his lungs, hot against the frigid mountain air, as he shifted his weight from back foot to front, bringing the wooden sword around in a wide, practiced arc. The timber in his hands groaned under the force, tiny splintered hairline fractures snaking up the edge from years of relentless impact. He barely noticed the rough friction against his palms; his focus remained locked entirely on the rhythm of his own balance and the bite of the wind.
He swung high. A light layer of fresh powder floated out of his light blue hair, spraying like a cloud of dust. The red hairband holding his fringe back tautened, and the edges of his simple tan cloak fluttered violently in the localized gust created by the sudden, sharp motion.
Beneath the cloak, he wore a simple black tunic with short sleeves that exposed the subtle weave of muscle in his arms, paired with gray pants tucked into heavy leather. Black fingerless gloves gripped the hilt, shielding the meat of his hands from the wooden splinters while leaving his fingertips exposed to the bite of the cold. Steel-and-leather armor bound his shoulders and knees, absorbing the damp chill, while a hardened leather armor chest plate fitted snugly over his ribs. At his waist sat a thick belt, weighted by two leather pouches that clinked softly with coin and oilcloth items whenever he moved.
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His feet brushed against the snow with a soft crunch. He drove his heel deep to find purchase, settling into a solid, unyielding stance before slowly straightening out. Breathing evenly through his nose, he turned to face his father, who had been standing silently, watching him for the last half hour.
Robin stood strong in the morning light. The towering mercenary commander didn't flinch against the frost. His dark eyes carefully measured the boy's form, quietly noting the grounded posture and the fluid transition between guards—a stark contrast to the awkward, top-heavy swings of years past. The pale morning light reflected off the polished edges of his steel breastplate, casting a sharp luster that gave him a majestic air, even as the falling white snow dusted his black hair, his crimson-and-black cape, and the heavy leather of his brown boots.
Without saying a word, Robin reached down, unclasped an iron sword from his hip, and tossed it through the air.
The cold metal glinted. Caleb barely caught the leather-wrapped hilt before the massive weight of his father's broadsword came clashing down toward him in a devastating arc.
Clang! Metal shrieked against metal, sending shockwaves straight through Caleb's elbows. Caleb parried, deflecting the iron blade just enough to avoid the crushing blow, but his father gave him no quarter. Robin stood firm, his expressions unreadable as he struck over and over again. Heavy, methodical blows hammered down—left, right, overhead— forcing Caleb backward, step after slipping step through the deep powder, never giving his son a chance to catch his footing or set his frame.
In a desperate bid to get an edge, Caleb dropped his shoulders, feinted low, and thrusted forward toward his father's chest.
Robin didn't even shift his rear foot. With a flick of his wrist, he easily dodged the thrust and brought the solid iron hilt of his blade down, striking Caleb hard across the right wrist.
