The grind doesn't stop.
The mornings come earlier now.
Sometimes I wake before the sky even lightens, before the birds dare to call out their morning songs.
The house is still. The coals in the hearth glow faintly. The air is cold against my skin. But I don't hesitate.
The aches from yesterday are always there—thudding softly in my arms, my legs, my back—but they've become something familiar. Something expected.
And slowly… something welcome. I've grown stronger. I can feel it in my bones. In my breath.
Where I used to drop the log on my third lap, I now carry it ten times over without losing step.
The rope I used to crawl beneath, I now sprint through without flinching. The stone I used to wobble on? I can balance for minutes now.
My hands are harder. My stance is steadier. My body no longer trembles just from standing still.
But Varric hasn't let up. If anything, his training's grown more difficult.
He introduces new drills. "Cliff," he says one morning, and that's all.
It takes me a minute to realize he means the rocky slope past the orchard, where the earth breaks into jagged layers above the stream.
"Climb it. Slow. No slipping." He doesn't offer a rope.
The first time, I fall three times. Scrape my knee once. Nearly sprain my wrist. The second time, I make it halfway before a root gives out beneath my foot and I slide hard down the dirt. By the third time, I make it all the way to the top.
He just says, "Again." And I go.
. . .
Another day, we walk deeper into the woods—past the worn paths, past the comforting ring of the village fences.
"This drill's simple," Varric mutters. "Step quietly. Watch your breathing. Keep to the shadows. If I hear you, you fail."
He disappears into the brush like mist, not even snapping a twig beneath him. I try to follow. But every snapped leaf, every clumsy exhale, every branch I bump is another reminder that I'm not there yet.
I spend three days practicing before I can walk a hundred paces without being caught.
"Better," Varric says on the fourth day. "But not quiet enough." I swear he smiles. Just barely.
His commands are fewer now. Less explanation. More refinement.
"Lower your center."
"Loosen your grip. You're wasting strength."
"Your left foot's a half-step ahead—adjust."
That's all. He doesn't need to yell anymore. I've learned to listen.
But even strength has limits. And I still find mine.
One afternoon, I make the mistake of thinking I can carry two full water buckets at once—like I've seen Rennan do.
The weight drags at my arms. The handles dig into my fingers. The slope up from the stream is steeper than I remember.
My foot twists as I step up over a slick patch of grass. My ankle gives out. I fall sideways, both buckets crashing down, water sloshing into the dirt.
Pain shoots up my leg, sharp and immediate. I try to grit through it, but when I stand—it gives out again.
I hit the ground with a thud. Varric doesn't speak right away. Just walks over, crouches beside me, eyes narrowed. "There's a line," he says finally, voice low. "Between pain that grows, and pain that warns."
I clench my teeth. He touches my ankle briefly, then looks at me. "Know the difference. Learn to listen."
Then he stands and walks a few steps away, giving me space.
I wait until Varric isn't looking. He stands by the stream with his back turned, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the treeline like the forest's breathing speaks some secret only he knows.
I crawl—because standing is too much right now—until I reach the shade of a tree. Then I close my eyes. My hands hover over the swollen ankle, and I try to remember Elaria's voice.
"See your wound as a tear in fabric," she said. "Imagine it stitching itself together, thread by thread." I exhale, letting the warmth in my chest stir. And then…
A flicker. My fingers glow, dim but steady, like a quiet candle in a tunnel. I guide the glow down to my ankle, imagining the torn muscle slowly knitting together, heat washing the pain away thread by thread.
The throbbing fades. The swelling lessens. But then, I feel it.
That draining pull again—like something yanking from deep inside me, further than muscles, deeper than bone.
My vision spins. The world tilts. I blink rapidly, trying to hold onto consciousness, but the light around my fingers sputters—and I hear a sharp intake of breath.
I look up. Varric is standing right there. His face isn't angry. It's surprised. "…You can use healing magic?" he asks, his voice lower than usual, careful.
I open my mouth. I want to say yes. I want to explain that Elaria taught me. That it saved me more than once. That it hurts, but I still use it anyway.
But I don't get the chance.
My breath catches halfway. Then my body slumps, and everything turns to black.
. . .
When I wake, I'm warm again.
I know this place. The soft mattress. The scent of herbs on the windowsill. The gentle creak of a chair when someone shifts nearby.
I blink slowly. Lina's face swims into view above mine. Her lips are pursed in a line of tight worry.
Rennan's leaning on the doorway behind her, arms crossed, his eyes scanning me like he's trying to read every scratch and bruise.
"What… happened?" I croak.
"You passed out," Lina says, brushing damp hair from my forehead. "Out in the woods. Varric brought you back."
I sit up slightly—and immediately regret it. Everything aches. Even after the healing. Especially after the healing.
"You used magic, didn't you?" she says quietly.
I hesitate. Then nod.
Rennan sighs from the doorway. "Of course he did."
Lina shakes her head. "Albus… you're not a soldier."
"I know."
"Then stop treating yourself like one." Her voice cracks, just a little.
"I'm not angry," she adds, more gently. "I just—"
"You scared us, kid," Rennan finishes, stepping forward.
"I didn't mean to," I say softly. They look at each other. Then back at me. "I just wanted to keep up," I whisper.
"And you are," Lina says, smoothing my hair back. "You are, sweetheart. But you don't have to prove anything to us."
I don't answer. Because part of me still isn't sure if I believe that yet.
That evening, Lina leaves a bigger plate of food at my place on the table. An extra slice of bread. An extra boiled egg. She says nothing. Just smiles when I notice.
Rennan starts pointing things out during my stretches—how to adjust my feet, where my balance shifts too far. He never says he's helping. He just… does it. And I let him. Because deep down, I think I'm starting to understand:
This isn't about doing everything alone anymore.
. . .
It's late when they come sit beside me.
The hearth has burned down to a low orange glow. The shadows stretch long against the floorboards. I'm still at the table, staring at the crust left on my plate, too full to move, too tired to think.
Rennan pulls out a chair across from me with that usual quiet weight of his. Lina brings a warm cloth and gently wipes down my bandaged ankle again, even though I say it doesn't hurt anymore.
They don't say anything for a while. Just sit with me. Like they're waiting for something.
And then, softly, Lina says, "Albus… can we ask you something?" I nod, not really looking up.
Rennan leans forward, elbows on the table.
"Why do you push so hard? Even when you're hurt. Even when we tell you it's okay to rest."
My lips press together. I don't answer at first. I don't want to. Because the answer feels too big to say out loud.
But I know they deserve it. So I breathe in slowly, my chest rising, falling, my fingers clenching the edge of my shirt.
"I…I don't want to be a burden."
Silence.
I finally look up. They're both frozen. Not angry. Not confused. Just shocked.
"You thought you were… a burden?" Lina's voice barely comes out.
"I always have been," I say, quieter now. "Ever since I was born. I was just another mouth to feed. I couldn't help anyone. I couldn't do anything. So I have to make myself useful. I have to get stronger, so no one ever looks at me like that again."
I expect scolding. Or pity. But instead—
Lina leans forward, arms suddenly wrapped around me, tight and trembling. "Oh honey, you are not a burden," she whispers into my hair. "You're not. You never were."
Rennan walks around the table, kneels beside me, and rests a hand gently on my back. "You're our family, Albus. Like a son. You don't have to earn that. You don't have to carry everything alone to deserve it."
I want to believe them. I really do.
But it still feels foreign. Like they're speaking a language I was never taught.
"I don't know how to let people care," I whisper.
"That's okay," Lina murmurs. "You'll learn. One step at a time."
"And we'll be here," Rennan adds, "every step."
My throat tightens. I close my eyes. And for the first time in a long, long while… I let myself cry in someone's arms.
Not from pain. Not from fear. Just from release.
. . .
The next day, I rise before the sun again.
The soreness is still there—but lighter, somehow. My ankle throbs a little, but the rest of me feels strong. Ready.
I head out into the frost-lined morning without hesitation.
Varric waits at the usual spot. He doesn't say anything as I arrive. Just nods at the logs.
And we begin.
I run. I lift. I climb. I balance. I breathe.
Every step, every swing, every moment feels sharper than before. And for the first time since I started… I don't collapse. I finish. All of it.
And when I drop the last bucket down by the stump and look up, I catch it:
That flicker in Varric's expression. Not a smile. But close. His eyes soften. His stance eases. Just for a second.
I nod to him quietly, chest heaving. And this time… I smile back.
. . .
Evening settles in like a breath held long and finally released. The sky bleeds warm orange and purple, clouds stretching like soft brushstrokes.
The crickets have begun to sing in low harmony.
The village behind me glows with hearth fire, flickering gently through windows and open doorways.
I don't go straight home. Instead, I walk to the stream near the training grounds, the one that runs cool and smooth down from the cliffs I've learned to climb.
The rocks are cold under my bare feet as I wade into the shallow edge.
I don't flinch at the chill. The soreness in my limbs feels like a companion now. An old friend.
Not sharp pain, not screaming joints or raw muscle. Just… resistance. Like my body still remembers everything I made it do.
I sit on the edge, roll up my pant legs, and let the water rise up to my knees. The current whispers around my legs, carrying with it the dirt of another long day, and the sweat and strain and doubt that clung to my skin.
I watch the ripples. Let them move. Let them breathe. The reflection stares back at me.
A small boy still. But not the same boy who stumbled into this village nearly starved and half-mad with grief. There's more strength in the arms. More weight in the shoulders. The face is still round, but not as much as before. The eyes aren't hollow.
I place a hand over my chest, fingers curled lightly, feeling the slow rhythm beneath. And I listen.
Inside me, the flame stirs. Not wild. Not explosive. Constant. A quiet warmth pulsing from deep in my core, reaching gently outward like a hand feeling its way through darkness.
My soul.
I close my eyes and breathe in the air, the scent of pine and stream water and distant bread baking.
I understand. For the first time since all this began… I truly understand.
This pain I carry now—it's not suffering. It's not punishment. It's a teacher. It speaks, in ways I never knew how to hear.
Not in screams. Not in silence. But in steady rhythm.
In breath. In growth. And I am listening.
Back at the house, the lantern glows warm through the window. I see Lina moving about the kitchen. Rennan is sharpening something at the table.
The door's open just enough to let in the breeze. And for once, I don't feel afraid to walk into the warmth.