The Åströms' Chronicles: Before

Varg had always known that training had no endpoint, and that the moment you decide you’re good at something is the moment you stop being good at it.

The day was dawning, with the sun slowly rising from behind the horizon, its first rays carefully examining the area, as if wondering if there was anyone to appreciate how beautiful the sunrise was.

There was—Varg Åström stood in a clearing, Fiske’s sword strapped to his waist, watching several Arctic willow bushes without moving.

Today's practice was fairly easy, as there was only a light breeze.

Varg stood still, watching the willow branches, breathing evenly, and letting his mind wander, keeping it clear of any deliberate thoughts.

He sensed hundreds of scents, heard dozens of sounds, felt the air brushing against his skin, the grass under his feet…

Shing!

Varg struck the air straight from his sheath, immediately bringing his sword into a protective stance.

In a heartbeat, a willow twig swayed, pushed by the wind—completely unrelated to the sword’s movement. The only connection between the strike and the bush was that Varg had moved mere moments before the twig swayed.

Varg nodded to himself and sheathed his sword, preparing for another repetition—the two hundred seventy-first one this morning.

***

An eagle approached the clearing and started circling it, eyeing this strange human fighting the air.

For some reason, the elders had told him to watch this man, though the eagle doubted he was any different from the rest of these pesky, annoying beasts.

If the eagle had shoulders, he would’ve shrugged—after all, it wasn’t a big deal to occasionally check on this man.

***

“Look, our little nasker fights the air again,” a loud male voice called from behind Varg, followed by several bursts of laughter.

Well. That had to happen someday.

Varg sheathed Fiske’s sword and slowly turned around.

It had been ten years since his teacher, who had also replaced his father, passed away, and every single sunrise since, Varg had come to this clearing to find a way to become a match.

He remembered what Fiske had taught him—Varg didn’t have to possess skunda undir to gain the respect of his people. Being an outlander made it impossible for him, but his will, his heart, and the new path he wanted to suggest for his people to follow were far more significant.

However, there were always big, strong, and utterly stupid assholes who begged to be put in their place with force—the force that, obviously, Varg didn’t have.

Five years after Fiske’s death and years before today, Varg had come up with something capable of confronting skunda undir.

A year had been spent just to get a hint of progress.

Four years—to achieve steady results.

Varg was surprised Syver and his sycophants hadn’t come here earlier.

“What are you doing here every freaking day, nasker?” Syver stopped several steps from Varg, looking at him with exaggerated compassion. “Still wailing over that old fisherman? Well, you were two of a kind—weak pieces of shit, useless to our village.”

Syver winked at Varg, and suddenly, his pupils narrowed as his silhouette began to shimmer.

In the span of a heartbeat, he lunged—slicing a curl of Varg’s hair with a long, thin sword—then retreated before the curl even hit the ground.

Varg stood still, eyeing Syver with an indifferent expression.

Syver frowned a bit—he would never admit it, but this weird outsider sent chills down his spine, despite the undeniable fact that he was literally the weakest fighter on the island.

Syver had begged the elders to let him challenge Varg and kill him. He had even suggested a fight without skunda undir to even the chances.

For some reason, the elders refused.

Well, there were no elders in this clearing, and who knew what might happen? That clumsy prick—who couldn’t even catch a trout without a rod—might just slip and fall on his own sword.

Syver looked at his friends, who nodded at him in turn—they all shared the same opinion about that “poor little orphan Fiske found on the beach” situation.

“Listen, Varg…” Syver smiled and spread his hands. “Let’s face it—you don’t belong here. I spoke to people, and that’s not just my opinion. I’m sure you can feel it, and it must be a huge burden, so I have a proposition.”

Varg raised his eyebrows, his right hand resting on his belt—right where it had been during his training.

“Yeah, you’re not very talkative,” Syver smirked. “We have a boat and some supplies—our gift to you. Take it and sail away. Find a place that accepts you.”

Varg smiled wryly, keeping his gaze locked on this strong, fast, sleazy bastard. Sailing away from the island, alone in a tiny boat, without experience or any means of navigation, was suicide—and this piece of shit knew it.

“Or?” It was the first word Syver had heard from Varg that morning.

“Or, accept a challenge from me, right here and now. If you manage to survive—not defeat me, just survive—for two minutes, I’ll vouch for you personally, in front of the entire village. My word matters.” Syver beamed, as if Varg had suddenly become his best friend.

Sadly, but truthfully, the word of this asshole did matter.

“Nobody’s gonna judge you if you choose the boat…” Syver raised his hands in a calming gesture.

Instead of answering, Varg tossed Syver an old, rusty, bloodstained arrowhead.

Syver caught the arrowhead and grinned—a villager had thrown him a weapon. Challenge given.

“Accepted.” Syver tucked the arrowhead into his pocket—

Shing!

Varg’s sword left the sheath as he shifted to the left with a speed that, while not unnatural, was still impressive for a regular human.

Syver, his silhouette shimmering, looked at Varg, eyes wide with shock as Varg’s sword froze an inch from his neck.

“What the..?” Syver gazed at the sword, then at Varg, and suddenly—

Ching!

Again, Varg moved moments before Syver did, blocking a slash on his sword, spinning on his soles, letting the hit slide past his body.

Varg’s body ached, and his heart raced. It was the first time he had used his invention against a real opponent, and it was harder than he had expected.

Syver turned to Varg, still shimmering, eyeing the nasker slowly. Something impossible had just happened.

Twice…

"Half a minute left," Varg said, winking at Syver. Fury momentarily replaced Syver’s bewilderment.

Over Syver’s dead body would this clumsy bitch see another sunri—

Slash!

Varg shifted left and counterattacked just before Syver lunged, aiming for Varg’s throat.

Still immensely faster than Varg, Syver managed to catch the blade and, without pause, tilted his wrist, swiping at Varg’s eye—

Zzzzzzing!

Once more, before Syver moved, Varg slashed upward while simultaneously jumping back, breaking distance.

“Two minutes.” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as fatigued as he felt. “My weapon.”

Varg extended his hand toward Syver, who had returned to normal speed and now stood holding his face, staring at Varg in a mix of bewilderment and horror.

Slowly, Syver took the arrowhead from his pocket and tossed it to Varg.

As much of an asshole as he was, he still respected tradition.

'I hope your speech to the village about me won’t be a burden,' Varg said, turning back to face the Arctic willow bush.

***

The eagle kept circling the clearing, watching Varg and Syver as the latter stepped back, a thin yet harmless wound blossoming across his face.

That was… impressive. Even for the eagle, who sincerely believed it was a huge pity that such pesky, unwise creatures occupied such a beautiful planet.

***

The sunrise grew into morning. Hours had passed since Syver and his sycophants had left in silence.

Varg focused on the willow bushes.

Shing!

Varg struck the air a moment before another twig swayed.

Varg had always known that training had no endpoint, and that the moment you decide you’re good at something is the moment you stop being good at it.