Urben de Silvan. The name sounds in me like an old song—the one saving from madness when I walk cursed fields where every blade of grass may flare in fire. My teacher. The only living person I fear disappointing more than myself.
Elemental mines spare neither heroes nor cowards. Only I walk. Lead the mare, clenching reins to white knuckles. Each step—a dance with death. And only his lessons keep me from primal horror threatening to flood reason.
Master Huhre—that's what we called him for his eternally tousled grays—is sixty-one. By our standards, where a man is lucky to reach forty, that's almost mythical age. He's a living chronicle of wars, mentor of generations. Many of his pupils already laid down heads on fields, not reaching his wisdom.
We, thirty- to forty-year-old commanders, next to him—just boys with sticks. Flaunt new armor and ringing titles, but he in worn jacket sees all our vanity with one glance. We think we know war because we've held a sword. But he knows it like an old mistress—all whims, all ways of betrayal.
When I turned eight, he took me under wing. Green as a spring leaf, stubborn as a young bull.
I hated horses then with all my childish being. These huge creatures seemed hellspawn—disobeyed, kicked, threw into mud with persistence worthy of better. I collected bruises like other kids flowers. Rose, brushed off tears, climbed saddle again to measure nearest puddle's depth.
It seemed—not for me. That I was born for books, stars, not stinking barnyard. Each morning woke hoping: today teacher says "enough, not given to you." But he was silent.
Just watched. Stood aside, arms crossed. For hours. His silence pressed harder than criticism—a magnifying glass making mistakes mountain-sized. No mockery or pity in eyes—only patience of one who knows: everything in its time.