The next few days passed in a rhythm that almost felt… normal.
Nyra spent her mornings at the inn's front counter with Serena, poring over simple books and practicing letters on scraps of parchment. Her handwriting was clumsy, but her eyes shone each time Serena praised her. For a girl who'd been treated like dirt her entire life, even these little victories seemed to mean the world.
Oliver's mornings were less forgiving.
Inside the inn's backyard, the clatter of steel and the scratch of metal on stone became a constant. He sat with a sword balanced on his lap, the runic pen in hand, painstakingly etching glowing lines under Isolde's sharp gaze.
"No, no—your strokes are uneven again," Isolde said, flicking his forehead without mercy. "Runes aren't doodles, Oliver. Each line is a channel for mana. A sloppy line means wasted energy. Again."
"Ughhh… my hand's cramping," Oliver groaned, shaking his wrist.
"Good. Build stamina. You'll need it."
