A Ballad of Wandering Bard

The completion of the training ground ignited a fire in the group like never before. With access to the sparring arena, agility courses, enchanted casting zones, and customized training dummies, each member of the group pushed their limits in ways they hadn't imagined.

Lucas, in particular, dove headfirst into his training. His time spent on the agility tracks and with the weight-training equipment honed his form into something sharper, faster, and deadlier. Under the guidance of his mysterious book and the precise markings on the dummies, his movements became a study in efficiency.

Even Tyrn noticed the change. One afternoon, leaning lazily against a fencepost, Tyrn watched as Lucas executed a series of fluid motions, striking lethal points on a dummy with pinpoint precision. He tilted his head slightly, his perpetual boredom replaced by curiosity.

"You're refining it," Tyrn said, breaking the usual silence during training. "The way you move—minimal effort, maximum effect. If you don't take a hit in a duel, you'll end it in four or five moves."

Lucas, breathing heavily, straightened and gave him a half-grin. "I'll try to aim for three."

Tyrn smirked. "Confidence aside, that style's something I haven't seen before. It's not knightly—it's... sharper, deadlier. Maybe something from the Eastern Continent. If I ever make it out there, I'll have to see if they're teaching it."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "You've never been to the Eastern Continent?"

"Nope," Tyrn replied with a yawn. "And until someone funds an expedition for my lazy behind, it's not happening anytime soon."

…

Meanwhile, Bogo had relocated his personal workshop to the training ground. Surrounded by the hum of activity and his friends' camaraderie, his creativity reached new heights.

"One day," he declared confidently, "I'm going to make each of you weapons so legendary they'll outlast the bards' songs about them."

"That sounds amazing," Dorian said, plucking a lazy tune on his lute. "What's stopping you?"

"My ideas!" Bogo groaned, dramatically throwing his hands in the air. "I can't stop coming up with them. Look, the other day, I thought—why not design houses with a half-meter gap beneath the foundation? In winter, we could put firewood there, and the heat would keep the floors warm. Isn't that genius?"

Ryssa tilted her head thoughtfully. "Actually, that does sound brilliant."

"But before I could draft that properly," Bogo continued, pointing a chisel at her, "I thought about making lightweight plows with retractable blades! And then I had an idea for a new pulley system for lifting goods in the barn. My brain keeps jumping from one thing to the next!"

The group burst into laughter, though they never stopped offering encouragement.

"You're not just full of ideas, Bogo," Lucas said, clapping his friend on the back. "You're full of great ideas. Keep going. We've got your back."

…

As the seasons turned, the group's progress marked the passing of another year. Now fifteen, they entered a winter unlike any before. The villagers, freed from their usual farming duties, found reasons to celebrate the colder months.

The centerpiece of this year's cheer was a mock battle between Dorian and Ryssa. Held at the training ground under the great oak tree, the duel attracted nearly the entire village, eager for entertainment during the long, chilly days.

Dorian and Ryssa faced each other in the sparring ring, their breath misting in the frosty air. Dorian twirled his lute, his confidence palpable as sparks of lightning flickered along its strings. Ryssa, meanwhile, conjured a swirling orb of water and fire in each hand, her control over both elements on full display.

"All right, you two," Garrin called from the sidelines, acting as an impromptu referee. "No lasting injuries, no turning anyone into a roasted chicken. Got it?"

"Define 'lasting,'" Dorian quipped, earning a laugh from the crowd.

The duel began with a burst of motion. Dorian's music summoned gusts of wind and crackling lightning, while Ryssa countered with arcs of water that shimmered in the winter light. Their movements were precise and energetic, the back-and-forth battle enthralling the audience.

"This is better than a summer festival!" Mrs. Yara Tulls shouted, clutching a steaming mug of mulled cider.

Bogo, standing with Lucas in the crowd, watched with a grin. "They're really putting on a show."

Lucas nodded, his eyes sparkling with admiration. "And to think—they're holding back."

The duel ended in a dramatic draw, with Dorian's lute strumming the final note as Ryssa's flames dissolved into harmless steam. The villagers erupted into applause, their cheers carrying warmth that rivaled the glowing hearths of their homes.

Amidst the winter festivities, Bogo's ingenuity continued to shine. The previous year, he had developed a series of traps for catching fish in frozen lakes, solving a problem that had plagued the village for generations. By crafting intricate mechanisms that lured fish into insulated enclosures beneath the ice, he ensured that families could enjoy fresh fish even in the coldest months.

This year, the villagers celebrated that accomplishment with full stomachs and warm hearts, toasting Bogo's name as they feasted on dishes that hadn't been possible in winters past.

"Bogo," Garrin said one evening as they stood near the training ground, watching the villagers laugh and share stories. "You've made this village better in ways even I didn't expect."

Bogo shrugged modestly. "I just want everyone to have what they need. That's all."

His father smiled, ruffling his son's hair. "And that's why you'll go far—farther than even you think."

Under the snow-laden branches of the great oak tree, the four friends gathered as the festivities wound down, the villagers slowly returning to their homes.

Ryssa shivered, wrapping her cloak tighter. "We're growing up, aren't we? Feels like we've come so far."

Lucas grinned, twirling his practice sword. "We're not done yet."

Dorian, his fingers idly plucking a slow tune, nodded. "No... not even close. This is just the beginning."

Bogo, standing among his inventions and the fruits of his labor, grinned wider than ever. "Just promise me we'll keep going. Together."

"Always," Ryssa said, her voice steady and certain.

The four stood beneath their statues and the towering oak tree, bound by dreams that had grown stronger with every passing season—and ready for whatever came next.