If I thought the first day at the Wall was rough, the second made me question every decision that brought me to this moment—including being born.
The frost seeped through my boots like a curse, and the morning wind sliced straight through my uniform. I'd never been a morning person, not in my old life as Jake, and definitely not now as Ash, formerly known as Leo Venus. But military life didn't care about your preferences.
"Up! Formation in two minutes!" Thorn's voice rang out across the camp like a war drum.
I stumbled out of the barracks still half-asleep, adjusting the straps of my chestplate. My fingers were stiff from cold, my legs sore from yesterday's drills. I'd barely managed to keep up on the field run, let alone survive the sparring match against Lark, who fought like someone triple her size.
"You'll need to tighten that strap before it gets caught," Wren said, stepping past me. Her voice was neutral, but her eyes flicked down at my chestplate with a smirk.
"Thanks," I muttered, fumbling to adjust it. She didn't wait for me.
We formed up in the open field behind the main outpost. Snow covered everything but the hard-packed training yard, which had been stomped flat by generations of recruits. Thorn paced in front of us, arms behind his back like a particularly disappointed father.
"Today is conditioning," he said, nodding to the stack of weighted packs behind him. "Ten laps around the outer perimeter with a full field load. No shortcuts. No complaints."
Flint groaned. "I thought today was sword drills."
"You can swordfight after you stop wheezing from two laps," Lark said, tightening her gloves.
I reached for a pack. The straps were stiff and coarse. As I hoisted it onto my back, the weight nearly buckled my knees.
"Sweet Goddess," I hissed. "What's in this, iron bricks?"
"Steel plates," Flint said cheerfully. "You'll get used to it."
I didn't.
---
The first lap was hell. The second was worse. By the third, my thighs were cramping and my shoulders screamed with every step. The terrain didn't help. We were running along uneven paths, ducking under snow-covered branches, and trying not to slip on hidden ice patches.
Flint stayed just ahead of me, occasionally offering words of encouragement.
"You're doing great, Ash. Just don't stop moving."
"Easy for you to say," I wheezed.
"You've got a good stride. You'll outrun me in no time if you keep at it."
I doubted that very much, but something in his tone kept me moving.
Behind me, Wren and Lark jogged in silence. Occasionally, Wren would bark at me to lift my knees higher. I appreciated it in the way one appreciates a thorn being pulled out of their foot—painfully grateful.
By the time we stumbled back into the yard, I was drenched in sweat beneath my winter gear. My legs felt like pudding and my arms were noodles.
"Get some water and rest," Thorn said. "You've got five minutes before sword drills."
"Five minutes?" I croaked.
"No one ever died from sore legs," he said. "But some died because they couldn't lift a blade when it mattered."
---
Sparring came next.
Thorn paired me with Flint this time, perhaps as a reward for surviving the run without collapsing. Flint used a training spear with padded ends, while I held a short wooden sword. I felt like a toddler with a stick.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No."
"Good enough."
He lunged.
The first strike caught my shoulder before I could raise my guard. I stumbled back, wincing. Flint didn't press—he gave me a second to recover.
"Keep your elbows in. Center your weight."
He struck again, this time slower. I blocked, just barely. The wood thudded against my makeshift guard.
"Better!"
We circled. He swung low—I dodged.
Then he swung high—I raised my blade too late.
Thud. "Ow."
"Sorry. But good footwork."
By the end of the session, I'd been hit more than I could count, but Thorn called me off with a nod.
"You're not graceful," he said. "But you're not soft, either. That'll come."
I didn't know if it was praise or just not an insult, but I'd take it.
---
That night, as we sat around the fire with bowls of lukewarm stew, I examined the raw blisters on my palms. My legs throbbed. My back ached.
And yet… I felt good.
Not accomplished. Not proud. Just… *alive*.
The others were quieter tonight, tired from the long day. Wren leaned back against a log, staring up at the sky. Flint was humming an off-key tune, fiddling with a charm around his neck. Lark scribbled in a small journal.
I glanced up, the stars sharp and brilliant above the frost-covered roof of the world.
Somehow, this felt more real than anything back home ever had.
Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was the firelight. Maybe it was the fact that for the first time in two lives, I wasn't pretending.
I was becoming someone new.
Someone stronger.
And that someone's name was Ash.