The next morning comes too soon.
The sun hasn't even peeked over the hills yet, but I'm already sitting up, pulling on my boots with trembling fingers. The floor is cold, and my breath fogs slightly in the early air. But I don't hesitate.
I tie the laces tight. I comb my fingers through my hair, quick and messy.
I step out into the gray-blue dawn and close the door quietly behind me.
The village is still asleep. But one figure waits near the gate, leaning on his staff like he's part of the shadows. Varric doesn't wave. He doesn't speak. He just watches as I walk toward him, boots crunching on the gravel. And when I reach him, he gives a single nod.
"Ready?" I look up at him.
I nod back. "Yes."
No more running. No more hiding. I have a promise to keep. And a future to fight for. Those are the words I repeat to myself.
Varric leads me just beyond the east orchard, where the trees thin out and the land slopes slightly downward. It's not far—maybe a five-minute walk—but it feels longer in the quiet. There's no field, no training ground like I imagined. Just uneven earth, tall grass, and a few smooth boulders scattered around.
A shallow stream cuts across the far end of the clearing. Waiting there is a pile of logs. A coil of rope. A stack of stones in varying sizes. And three large water buckets.
My eyes shift between them. "…Are we building something?"
"No," he says. "You are."
I blink. He points at the largest log. "Carry that across the clearing. End to end. Ten times." I nod and move toward it. He doesn't explain anything else.
It's heavier than it looks. By the third lap, my arms are shaking. My knees are wobbling. The sun still hasn't broken the horizon.
By the fifth lap, my breathing is ragged. My chest burns like it's on fire.
I drop the log and fall to my knees. Varric just watches. Not saying a word. "Five more…" I wheeze.
"Then ten more after that," he says simply. "And then we run."
I blink sweat out of my eyes. "What?"
"You don't build strength by lifting weapons," he says. "You build it by lifting yourself."
He tosses a skin of water my way. I drink greedily, water dripping down my chin. Then pick the log up again.
. . .
Hours blur into one long ache.
After the logs, he has me sprint between trees, crawling through mud pits, hauling full buckets of water up the slope over and over.
My legs give out. I trip more than once. At one point, I feel something sharp twist in my ribs, and I curl into the grass, panting. "Up," he says.
I grit my teeth and push myself up. The sun is high by the time I vomit behind a tree. The bile burns my throat, and my hands tremble against the bark.
But I smile. Because I'm still standing. Barely. But I am.
The day ends when the sky turns orange. I'm caked in dirt. My shirt is torn. My palms are raw, and my legs feel like they don't belong to me anymore.
Varric watches me stumble through the last lap of the field, arms dragging behind me like lead. He says nothing. Just stands with arms crossed, eyes calm. When I finally stop, he nods.
"We continue tomorrow. Same time." I nod, breathing too hard to answer.
He turns to leave. But I catch something as he glances over his shoulder—just for a second. A look.
Not approval exactly. But not disapproval either. Like something inside him just shifted.
He didn't think I'd make it through today, I realize. And he's surprised I did.
By the time I return to the village, the sun has dipped low, bathing everything in amber light. Smoke rises from chimneys, and somewhere nearby I smell stew—maybe carrot and onion, with a bit of thyme.
The moment I reach the house, the door creaks open. Lina's face goes pale the second she sees me. "Oh gods, Albus—what happened?"
I glance down at myself. My tunic is streaked with dirt, my knees are stained green, and my hands are scratched up with tiny splinters and dried blood. I probably smell like swamp, sweat and failure.
Rennan steps up behind her, towel slung over his shoulder. "First day, huh?" he mutters, frowning at my bruised arms.
"I'm fine," I say, trying to lift my chin. But my voice cracks, weak and breathless.
Lina rushes forward and touches my shoulder lightly, as if afraid I'll collapse if she presses too hard. "Sweetheart, you're shaking. Look at you—you're just a baby still."
I flinch at the word. "I can do it," I mutter. "I want to do it."
They share a glance. Not the scolding kind. The scared kind. Lina kneels in front of me. Her fingers gently brush the dirt from my cheek.
"I know you want this," she says. "But you don't have to destroy yourself to prove it."
"I'm not destroying anything," I say, a little louder now. "I'm building something. I just… I just haven't finished yet."
There's a beat of silence. Then Rennan exhales and steps aside. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."
That night, I sit on a stool near the hearth, my feet soaking in a bucket of warm water steeped with herbs.
The heat stings at first, then slowly numbs into something almost pleasant.
Lina crouches beside me with a cloth, wiping the dried sweat from the back of my neck. Her touch is gentle. Wordless.
She doesn't say I shouldn't train. She doesn't tell me to stop. She just helps.
Rennan walks by occasionally, tossing more logs on the fire or glancing at the bucket to check if the water's still warm. His brow stays furrowed, but he doesn't speak either.
The silence is a kind one. A silence that understands.
I lean back, staring up at the ceiling. The heat in my muscles still lingers, like echoes of every step I ran and every log I lifted. It aches—but it's mine.
It's not like the pain from before. Not like the cold in the mines, or the sting of whips, or the bruises from when I was dragged by the collar for moving too slow.
This pain isn't forced on me. It's not punishment. It's something I chose. That makes it different. That makes it worth something.
Later, as I lie in bed, the soreness crawls back into my legs. My shoulders twitch with each breath. But I smile into the pillow.
Today, I didn't just survive. I endured. And tomorrow? I'll do it again. Even if I fall. Even if I bleed. Because now—I have a reason.
I wake up before the light again. Not because of any dream. Not because I'm afraid. But because my body simply won't let me stay still.
Everything aches. Muscles I didn't even know I had scream when I try to sit up. My calves feel like stone, my arms twitch when I flex my fingers.
It hurts. It really hurts. But I get up anyway. Because I said I would.
Varric is already waiting at the training field. Same spot, same stance. It's like he hasn't moved since yesterday.
He glances at me. Doesn't ask how I feel. Just nods once. "Start with five laps."
"Five?" I croak.
"Today," he says, "we're pacing. Strength without rhythm is just flailing."
I suck in a breath and start running. My legs want to buckle after the second lap. My chest is tight by the third. By the fourth, I'm dragging one foot behind the other like I've forgotten how to walk straight. But I finish. Barely.
I fall to the grass and stare at the sky, lungs burning. Varric tosses me the water skin. "You're slower today."
I glare at him. "I'm sore."
"Good."
I groan. Then sit up. He points toward the stones. "Today we add balance drills."
I blink. He grabs one of the medium-sized stones, a flat-topped one, and places it on top of a short wooden stump. "Get on it. Hold your stance. Don't fall."
"That's it?" I ask, eyeing the thing.
"That's everything," he replies.
I don't last long. The first time I get on, my legs wobble immediately. The second time, I slide off sideways after a gust of wind. The third time, I actually stay upright for a while—but my knees won't stop shaking.
Varric walks around me in a slow circle. "Stillness is harder than motion," he says. "Don't lock your body. Breathe into it."
I don't really understand what he means. But I try anyway.
I take a breath. Deep. Slow. Let my toes shift. I don't think about the ache in my shoulders, or the blisters on my palms. Just the breath.
And slowly, the trembling lessens. Not gone. But manageable.
When I finally step down—more like fall down—I expect him to nod again or give some vague advice. But instead, he says something I didn't expect. "You listen better than most grown men I've trained."
I freeze. It's not praise. Not exactly. But something in it makes my chest lift just slightly. Like I can breathe a little deeper now.
As the sun starts dipping low, Varric sets a small log in front of me and tells me to carry it to the stream and back ten times. My body protests. Every step feels like I'm dragging a sack of bricks behind me.
At one point, my foot catches on a rock, and I tumble, smacking my knee. I grit my teeth and stand back up, even though my vision swims. I finish the last trip with the log over my shoulder, panting, soaked with sweat.
Varric watches the whole time, arms folded, face unreadable. When I drop the log at his feet, he finally speaks. "Tomorrow—same time."
I nod, dizzy. But I don't fall. Not until I'm alone.
I limp back through the village just as the sun finishes its descent behind the hills.
It's a blur—the laughter of children somewhere near the well, a dog barking down the road, the faint whistle of someone finishing their day's work.
The pain is everywhere. My back. My legs. My hands. But none of it scares me. I'm used to pain. What I'm not used to—is pain that belongs to me.
The front door creaks as I push it open. I'm too sore to try and be quiet.
Lina looks up from the hearth instantly. Her face tightens when she sees me, and she's across the room before I can say a word. "Oh, sweetheart…" Her hands hover over my arms like she's afraid to touch me. "Look at you. You're filthy—and bleeding—what is that on your knee?!"
Rennan leans against the doorframe behind her, arms crossed. He whistles low. "That's… worse than yesterday."
"I'm fine," I mutter, voice gravelly. "I can still move."
"That's not the point," Lina says sharply, brushing the matted hair from my forehead. "You're two years old, Albus. This isn't normal." I flinch.
"But you're not normal," she adds quietly. "I know that. I do. I just… I don't want you to break before you become who you want to be."
I look down at my hands. They're shaking again. But it's not weakness. Not really. It's just the fire under the skin still cooling down.
"I'm not breaking," I say, and then glance up, locking eyes with her. "I chose this."
Lina stares at me a long moment. Then sighs and hugs me gently. "Come on. Bucket's ready."
The water stings more tonight. Lina adds some crushed herbs into the steaming water—something that smells earthy and sharp. I soak my feet in silence, staring at the firelight flickering across the walls.
Rennan tosses another log on the flames and slumps into the chair beside me. "How's the old man treating you?" he asks.
I shrug. "Strict." He snorts. "Sounds about right."
"But fair," I add. That makes him raise an eyebrow. "Fair, huh?"
"He doesn't yell. Doesn't lie. Just gives me the work. And lets me fail if I have to."
Rennan leans back. "He's not the coddling type. But he's honest. That's worth something."
Lina wipes the side of my face with a warm cloth. She doesn't speak. But her hand lingers a little longer than usual.
Later that night, I lie in bed staring up at the ceiling again.
I trace the grain of the wood with my eyes, the old knots and cracks forming patterns that remind me of winding rivers.
My arms are heavy. My legs are sore. Every breath makes my ribs ache just a little. But I smile. Because I've earned this pain.
No one forced it on me. No one chained me down and told me to suffer. This pain isn't about survival. It's about purpose.
Today, I fell. But tomorrow, I'll rise. And the day after that, I'll rise again.
Somewhere deep in my chest, I feel that tiny ember—the one Elaria taught me to sense.
It doesn't flicker weakly like it used to.
It hums. Faint, but steady. Like a heartbeat learning its rhythm again.
[Current Status]
Name: Albus
Age: 2
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Class: Slave(Former)
Occupation: None
Location: Willowmere
Strength: 7/Toughness: 7/Stamina: 9/Dexterity: 6/Perception: 10/Charisma: 4
Titles: Soul Migrator/ Blood Moon Curse
Skills/Traits: Minor Healing(Lvl. 2)/ Poison Resistance(Lvl. 1)/ Combat Instinct - Basic(Lvl. 2)/ One Handed Weapons(Lvl. 3)