By the end of week three, my arms felt like wet rope and my thighs had graduated from sore to numb. But my footing was better. My grip no longer slipped in the cold. And most importantly, I didn't fall on my face during warmups anymore.
Progress.
Of course, progress meant very little to Thorn.
"You're improving," he said one morning, after I finished my fourth lap without wheezing. "Which means you're ready for real weapons."
"Wait, what was that wooden stick I've been swinging?" I asked.
"Beginner embarrassment," Wren chimed in from the side.
Thorn handed me a short blade. Not enchanted, not even polished. Just a solid, steel-edged training weapon with a blunt tip. It felt heavier than it looked.
"The weight will slow you at first," Thorn said. "But real steel teaches balance. Timing. And pain."
Flint clapped me on the back. "Good news: we all survived our first week with steel. Bad news: that's when most people get their first scar."
"Encouraging."
---
We drilled for hours.
Stance, footwork, blocks, slashes—Thorn emphasized repetition over flair. "If you can't repeat the basics a hundred times without error," he said, "you'll be dead before you cast a single spell."
That one stung.
Leo—me—still couldn't use magic. Not a spark. But my body… it was getting there. Slowly.
Wren became my primary sparring partner. She was quicker, stronger, and meaner with a blade than anyone in the squad, and she didn't go easy.
Our first session ended with me flat on my back and Wren standing over me, arms crossed.
"Your feet are too close. Your center's too high. And you lead with your shoulders."
"I'll write that down as: 'everything is wrong.'"
"Basically."
By the third session, I could block three out of five of her strikes. Not bad. Not great. But again—progress.
Lark offered to treat the bruises afterward. "You're collecting those like medals."
"They kind of feel like medals," I admitted, pulling off my jacket and revealing the mess of red and purple marks across my ribs.
She winced. "Yeah, okay. Maybe don't tell Thorn that. He might think he's going easy on you."
---
Later that week, we were assigned a training mission: escort a logistics team two miles south and return by dusk. It was meant to simulate long-haul patrols and defensive formations. Sounds boring? It wasn't.
Between the cold, the sleds, and the sled-pulling boars (which apparently needed babysitting), we had our hands full.
"Never thought I'd be guarding a pig from wolves," Flint muttered as we trudged alongside the supply line.
"They're *boars*," Wren corrected. "And they cost more than your tuition."
"Still pigs."
We were halfway through the return leg when the wind shifted.
Everyone stopped.
Even the boars.
Lark stepped forward and knelt in the snow. "Something's off."
I followed her gaze. A disturbance in the snow. The subtle lines of a drag mark, then… small prints. Fast. Erratic.
Wren drew her blade. "Snowmice?"
"Bigger," Thorn replied. "Spread out. Defensive ring."
I moved to position, adrenaline pushing past the aches in my limbs.
From the trees, three shapes emerged—lean, hunched, covered in frost-white fur. Not large. But fast.
"Skulks," Thorn said. "Eyes first. Throat second."
The creatures lunged.
---
I didn't have time to think—just act.
My body moved before my mind did. I raised my blade, caught the first skulk mid-leap, and shoved hard. It squealed, veered off, and tumbled in the snow.
The second darted in from the right. Wren met it with a slice across the flank. Flint sent the third flying with a boot to the chest.
The first one came back, limping but still vicious. It bared its fangs and sprang—
And I stepped into it.
Weight forward. Center low. Just like Thorn said.
My blade met fur. It wasn't clean, but it was deep enough. The skulk dropped at my feet, twitching once, then going still.
Silence fell.
"You okay?" Lark asked.
I nodded. My hands were shaking, but not from fear.
I'd done it.
No magic. No trick. Just steel, will, and training.
"Nice kill," Wren said, surprising me. "Form was ugly, but effective."
Thorn gave a grunt of approval. "You held the line. That's what counts."
---
We hauled the supplies back without further incident.
That night, I sat alone, sharpening my blade by the fire. It still felt heavy. But it didn't feel like a stranger anymore.
It felt like something I could trust.
Something I could grow with.
Flint dropped beside me and offered a chunk of dried fruit. "Still breathing, Ash. That's the first mark of a proper soldier."
"Doesn't feel like enough."
"It never does."
He leaned back against the log, staring at the stars. "But you didn't panic. You didn't freeze. And you didn't wait for someone else to save you."
I looked down at the steel in my hands. It gleamed dully in the firelight, nicked but solid.
"I guess I really am changing."
"You've been changing since the day you arrived," Flint said. "You just didn't notice yet."