Another short story (untitled)

He was a rising star. “Fireblade” they called him, for he was young, valiant and energetic.

Though i had admired his fighting abilities, I was particularly concerned about his emotional nature. He would draw his sword at the most inappropriate times. Lucky for him, people were scared of him and avoided to challenge him into duels.

Seldom, I had met him in private and tried to explain to him that a great warrior is not just a master swordsman, but an expert controller of himself and the things around him. He would listen intently, smile reassuringly at me and say: “No worries, master! I know what I am doing and things would be all right soon enough”. Again that day when I tried to stop him from challenging Hugo to a fight, He had that same reassuring smile on his face before he walked off.

Soon afterwards, his head rolled over to my feet, coated in mud and his blood, lifeless eyes open in disbelief staring directly at (and beyond) me… I sighed.

Fireblade had lost his head one last time.

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