The Weight of a Promise

I turned nine last week.

We didn’t do much—just a quiet evening, warm food, and a look from my mother that lingered a little longer than usual.

My father didn’t mention it.

The next morning, he handed me a wooden sword.

No ceremony. No explanation.

Just a tool. One I wasn’t ready for.

And yet… it fit in my hands like it had been waiting.

The orb still floats when I call it.

That’s not pride. Just truth.

Some days it spins. Some days it glows steady in my palm like it belongs there.

It still takes effort—still leaves a faint ache behind—but I don’t fumble with it anymore.

I’ve stopped trying to command magic.

Now, I try to understand it.

But that morning, holding that sword… I understood something else.

Magic may come from within.

But strength? That comes from standing.

From weight.

From pain.

We didn’t start with swings.

We started with silence.

A stance.

One foot here. One foot there. Knees bent. Back straight.

“Balance,” my father said. “Before anything else.”

I held that pose until my legs shook.

When I fell, he didn’t scold me.

He just said, “Tomorrow again.”

That was all.

The next day came.

We added motion—just steps.

Weight shifted from heel to toe. A half-turn. A reset.

Each movement slow. Grounded.

It reminded me of the orb. How it only listened when I did.

Swordplay, it seemed, was no different.

That night, I collapsed onto my bed. My arms were noodles. My back throbbed.

But my heart felt light.

Not because I’d done well.

But because I’d started something.

Something I had to earn.

Something I’d promised—quietly, to myself—the moment I accepted that blade.