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Chapter 2 - The Cole Legacy

Ethan sat at the wooden breakfast table, trying to act normal. The smell of his mother's porridge filled the kitchen, just like he remembered, but everything felt different now and he could see things he'd missed before.

His father, Elkar sat across from him, still wearing that serious expression he always had. Gray streaked his dark hair, and deep lines marked his face. The hands wrapped around his mug were the same ones that had guided the executioner's axe for more than twenty years.

"The Academy letter came yesterday night," Elkar said. "Examinations are tomorrow at dawn."

His mother, Elena paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. Worry lines creased her forehead. Ethan had never noticed how deep they were before.

"He's ready," she said, but her voice shook a little. "Our boy has always been smart. Good with his sword work too."

The pride in her voice made Ethan's chest tight. Looking at her now, he could see everything he'd missed as a child. The way she'd mended his practice clothes by candlelight or how she'd given him bigger portions at dinner, including all the little sacrifices she'd made.

"Aye, he's sharp enough," Elkar agreed. "But the Academy..." He set down his mug carefully. "The Academy is no place for the executioner's son to make friends. The noble houses remember everything and they hold grudges."

Ethan remembered the isolation. The whispered conversations that stopped when he walked along the town roads.

"Let them whisper," Elena said, steel in her voice. "Our son will prove himself through his own merit."

She got up and walked to the stone hearth where a small iron pot sat cooling. When she came back, she carried a leather pouch that clinked with coins.

"I've been setting aside copper where I could," she said, placing the pouch in front of Ethan. "Selling eggs to the market women. Taking in mending work. It's enough for the first term's fees. Maybe the second if we're careful."

The words hit Ethan like a punch to the gut. The pouch represented months of sacrifice, of meals his mother had skipped and comforts she'd gone without. In his original timeline, he'd taken the money without thinking twice about where it came from.

"Mother," he started, his voice rough.

"No protests," she said firmly. "A Cole makes his way in the world through honest work and sharp steel. The Academy will give you both."

Elkar nodded slowly. "The name carries weight, son. Sometimes that weight will feel like an anchor and sometimes like a sword but you must learn to use it wisely."

They finished breakfast in quiet. Ethan found himself studying his parents' faces, memorizing details he'd forgotten. The way his mother's smile split her face and how carefully his father handled even simple things like spoons.

After eating, Ethan excused himself. Said something about final preparations but the truth was more complicated. His sixteen-year-old body remembered techniques he wouldn't learn for years and he needed to figure out how to handle that.

The barn stood at the edge of their property, its wooden boards gray with age. Inside, it smelled like hay and animals, dust danced in the sunlight that came through the loose boards.

Ethan grabbed his practice sword from where it hung with the farming tools. Plain steel, weighted for training. In his hands, it felt familiar and foreign at the same time.

He started with basic forms. The foundation patterns his father had drilled into him during countless afternoon sessions.

The Valorian Guard position came naturally to his muscles. A defensive form that wouldn't be taught at the Academy for three years but the irony wasn't lost on him, his greatest advantages might also be his biggest problems.

"Still playing with toys, Cole?"

The voice carried across the barn with cruelty. Ethan turned to see three figures in the doorway, Willem Ashford and his friends, Garrett and Thom. In his old life, this encounter had ended with bruised ribs and a split lip. A beating that had set the social order for his Academy years.

Willem stepped into the barn with confidence. His clothes marked him as merchant class, those rich enough to look down on the executioner's family, but not so high up as to be untouchable. His friends flanked him like they'd practiced it.

"Heard you're planning to try for the Academy," Willem continued, fake surprise in his voice. "Imagine that, the headsman's boy, thinking he belongs with his betters."

The words were meant to make him angry. To push Ethan toward the same desperate rage that had made his younger self throw the first punch, but thirty years of life experience had taught him that anger was a luxury he couldn't afford.

"The Academy accepts those with merit," Ethan replied, keeping his voice level. "Birth doesn't matter as much as ability."

Willem's face soured at the unexpected response. "Ability? What ability does a butcher's son have beyond swinging an axe?"

"The same ability that lets merchants' sons count coins," Ethan said, setting his practice sword aside carefully. "Skills learned through necessity."

The casual dismissal hit Willem like a slap. In their original encounter, fear had made Ethan vulnerable. Now, the absence of that fear changed everything.

The confidence in his voice made Willem pause. This wasn't the cowering boy he'd expected to intimidate.

"Come on," Garrett muttered, tugging at Willem's sleeve. "He's not worth the trouble."

Willem hesitated, torn between wanting to maintain dominance and growing uncertainty about the outcome. In that moment, Ethan recognized the truth that had escaped his younger self, that bullies were cowards who relied on predictable responses to keep their power.

"We'll see you at the Academy, Cole," Willem said finally, more bluster than conviction in his voice. "If you make it that far."

They left with studied casualness, trying to preserve their dignity in retreat.

The barn felt different after they left, now charged with possibilities that hadn't existed in his original timeline.

Ethan picked up his practice sword and resumed training. The Academy was waiting, and with it, the chance to begin rewriting history, but the question was whether he had the wisdom to improve the past without destroying the future.

The morning sun climbed higher, casting longer shadows across the barn's interior. In the distance, the village bell called everyone to midday. Time moving forward in a world that didn't know the price of the choices it would soon have to make.

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