Sweat

Frankia, 1001 A.D.

Monday

Dawn broke not in gentle light but in the hiss of frost cracking beneath bare feet. The churchyard was cold and cruel, as always — stone tiles soaked in morning dew and the occasional blood drop. Inside the cloister courtyard, twelve boys and three girls formed a crooked circle on the packed dirt. Bare-chested, bruised, and panting, they waited for the next command.

Thirteen-year-old Hugo stood at the center of the ring, steam rising from his shoulders. His shirt lay in the mud, soaked with sweat, and his ribs bore the red mark of a correction rod.

“Again,” barked Father Grigori, spinning the polished wooden stick in his hand.

The old priest walked with a limp and wore a perpetual sneer, but the muscles beneath his tattered robes told of wars fought before Hugo was born — wars of both flesh and spirit.

Hugo gritted his teeth and dropped into a Pankration stance — one foot forward, fists half-clenched, weight low and centered. His opponent, a brutish boy named Anton who smelled perpetually of onions and fear, lunged at him with a sloppy overhand strike.

Hugo rolled beneath the blow, swept Anton’s leg, and drove his shoulder into the boy’s chest — clean, efficient, with just enough restraint not to crack ribs.

Anton went down hard.

“Better,” said Father Grigori, not unkindly. “But you telegraphed the shoulder feint. That’ll get you killed.”

CRACK.

The rod landed across Hugo’s back with a sharp snap. He hissed but didn’t fall.

“Glory to God,” he muttered under his breath.

Grigori snorted. “God won’t protect you from broken spines. Keep your elbows in.”

They trained for two more hours, cycling through strikes, holds, and submissions — no flourishes, no wasted movement. Pankration, despite its Greek roots, had found a home among the Parisian faithful. Strength, discipline, and mercy: three virtues for body and soul.

By the end, Hugo’s knuckles were raw, his lip split, and his back striped with red, but he bowed respectfully, as did the others.

“You’re dismissed,” Grigori said, tossing Hugo a damp cloth. “Except you, son of the rooftops.”

Hugo turned.

“You’re improving,” the priest said quietly. “But don’t chase strength for its own sake.”

“I’m not,” Hugo replied. “I chase it so I can protect people. Even the ones who hate me.”

Grigori studied him for a long moment, then gave a grunt of approval.

“Go. Your steel waits.”

—

By midday, the snow had begun to melt into slush along the gutters of central Paris. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys; the sound of horse hooves and merchant bartering rose above the hum of bells.

Hugo moved with purpose, cloak flapping behind him, sweat barely dried on his skin. He turned down the alley past the cobbler’s shop and approached the forge of Master Alaric.

The doors were already open.

Inside, heat rolled from the coals in rhythmic pulses. Elise stood beside the anvil, wiping her hands on a stained leather apron. Her braid had come undone in places, but she still looked composed — focused.

When she saw him, her face lit up. “You’re early.”

“I finished my morning flaying session and thought I’d reward myself,” Hugo said, pulling off his gloves. “With metal.”

Alaric didn’t look up from his work. “If you bleed on my floor, I’ll feed you to the pigs.”

“Understood.”

Elise reached beneath the workbench and drew out a bundle wrapped in white cloth. “It’s not ceremonial, but… I tried to make it elegant.”

She placed it in Hugo’s hands.

He unwrapped it slowly.

The rapier was a slender, gleaming thing — not silver but bright-forged steel, with a swept hilt like curling vines and a subtle cruciform pattern etched into the guard. The blade itself shimmered faintly, as if it remembered fire. Perfectly balanced. The weight of judgment in one hand.

He exhaled slowly. “It’s beautiful.”

Elise smiled, a little shy this time. “It’s yours.”

He bowed his head. “Praise to God.”

Then he lifted it, tested the grip, and gave a short, clean cut through the air. The blade sang.

Alaric grunted. “You’ve got work to do if you want to wield it properly.”

Hugo nodded. “Which is why I’m off to pick a fight.”

—

The Bailiff's Office was tucked in the corner of Rue des Fleurs, just between a tavern named The Donkey’s Mercy and a brothel called The Velvet Thorn. It looked like a retired shoemaker’s hut — sagging roof, faded sign, two muddy windows — but it had more swords than scrolls inside.

The bailiff himself was a tired man in his fifties, with ink-stained fingers and a beard streaked with iron gray. He looked up as Hugo entered, raising an eyebrow at the boy’s bruised face and clean steel.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, squinting. “Another altar boy with a death wish.”

“I’d prefer the title Demon Hunter,” Hugo replied, stepping forward and setting the rapier across the desk.

The bailiff leaned back in his chair. “Thirteen?”

“Nearly fourteen.”

“You ever killed anything?”

“Only rats, a heretical goose, and two demonic mushrooms.”

The man blinked.

“I’m qualified,” Hugo added, reaching into his coat and producing three letters of recommendation. One from Father Grigori (“Excellent reflexes. In need of humility. Potentially touched by something divine.”), one from the Bishop of Paris (“Technically a criminal, but disturbingly effective.”), and one from Master Alaric himself (“He pays on time. Don’t lend him anything.”).

The bailiff read through them slowly. His eyes paused on Grigori’s line.

“…Potentially touched by something divine, huh?”

Hugo didn’t answer. He let the silence stretch.

Finally, the bailiff sighed. “We’ve got something just outside the southern quarter. Farm girl went missing near dusk. Cattle found mutilated. Locals say it’s a simple wolf. I say anything that carves a cow’s face into a tree trunk isn’t simple.”

“Do I get a badge?”

“You get a piece of string and a contract,” the man grunted, scribbling on a parchment. “You don’t get paid unless you return with proof. You die, I don’t bury you. Deal?”

“Deal,” Hugo said, signing the parchment with a flourish.

“Take this, too.” The bailiff tossed him a small vial. “Blessed oil. Won’t kill a demon, but it might ruin their mood.”

Hugo pocketed it. “That’s all I need.”

As he turned to go, the bailiff called after him, “You kill this thing, I might even put your name on the wall.”

Hugo paused. “Put my Bible verse instead.”

“You’re one of those, huh?”

“Just enough,” Hugo said, smiling.

—

The city faded behind him as he made his way into the southern farmlands. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the snow-dusted fields. His breath came in clouds, and his blade clinked softly against his side.

He passed a ruined scarecrow, a burned wagon, and eventually, a circle of blackened soil surrounding a lone tree — its bark carved with spirals and teeth.

Hugo stepped into the circle and felt the wrongness settle around him.

He drew the rapier.

“Time to test your worth,” he murmured.

The shadows rustled.

And something answered.

But that is another story.

For now, he stood — thirteen years old, armed, bruised, and unafraid — with a blade in his hand, scripture in his heart, and a fire that no demon could quite explain.

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