The next morning, my body woke before the light.
It always did now.
The ache in my shoulder was still there, dull and angry, but it didn't matter. My mind was sharper than the pain — sharper even than the memory of Klaus's whip cracking across my back.
The cliffs were waiting.
By the time the first streaks of gray touched the horizon, I was already slipping out of the barracks, my boots crunching softly against the frozen gravel.
The others barely noticed me.
Why would they?
To them, I was still just Holt's shame — the worthless scion, the outcast, the rat who kept his head down and did what he was told.
Good. Let them think that.
Because soon enough, I'd be more than just a rat.
---
The climb was faster this time.
I knew where to put my feet now, which rocks would hold my weight, where the hidden ledges were. My body felt stronger, even though I hadn't eaten more than a crust of bread since yesterday.
When I reached the top, the stranger was already waiting, of course.
He was sitting cross-legged on a boulder this time, his sword laid across his knees, the blade catching the dawn in flashes of cold steel. His scarred face turned toward me as I approached.
"Right on time," he said.
I nodded.
"What's your name?" I asked.
He chuckled low in his throat.
"You don't need it yet. You're not ready to carry it."
That stung more than I'd expected, but I didn't let it show.
"Fine," I said, stepping closer. "Then what do you have for me today?"
He pushed himself to his feet and swept the sword up in a single fluid motion.
"Pain," he said simply. "Pain, and the beginnings of strength. If you can survive it."
I didn't flinch.
He grinned.
"Good."
---
We started with footwork.
The stranger — my teacher, though he never called himself that — dragged a stick through the gravel, carving a series of crooked circles and lines.
"Stay within this," he said. "No matter what happens."
Then he attacked.
And I learned what pain really meant.
His blade never cut me — not once — but it kissed the air just a hair's breadth from my skin, driving me back, forcing me to pivot, to duck, to roll. Every mistake was met with a swift, punishing blow to my ribs or thigh with the flat of his sword.
It left bruises that would take days to fade.
But I stayed on my feet.
Every time he struck, I counted the rhythm. Every time he lunged, I studied the tension in his shoulders, the shift of his weight.
By the time he finally lowered his blade, my shirt was soaked with sweat, my legs trembling.
But I hadn't stepped outside his lines. Not once.
When he saw that, his scarred cheek twitched.
"You learn quick," he muttered.
"Quicker than you thought?" I asked, breathing hard.
His good eye glimmered.
"Quicker than most."
---
I sat down on a rock, chest heaving, while he cleaned his blade with a scrap of cloth.
"Why?" I asked after a long moment.
His hand stilled.
"Why what?"
"Why help me? You've been watching the mines for days — you've seen what happens to people who get out of line. So why me?"
He stared at me for a long time, and I thought he wasn't going to answer.
But then he said:
"Because you're not like them. The rest of them have already broken. You… still have something left."
His words sank into me like water into parched earth.
He pointed the cloth at me, his voice sharp again.
"But don't mistake this for kindness. If you fail, you're nothing to me. Understand?"
I swallowed and nodded.
"Good."
---
On my way back down to the camp, I noticed the boy again.
The page.
He was standing near the gate now, holding a bundle of ledgers under one arm. The cap still shadowed his face, but when he saw me, his lips curved just slightly at the corner — a faint, knowing smile.
Like he'd been expecting me to come back from the cliffs.
Our eyes met.
And then he turned and disappeared into the supply shed without a word.
I stood there for a moment, staring after him, my pulse quickening in a way I couldn't explain.
Who was he?
And why did I feel like his story was tangled with mine in ways I couldn't yet see?
---
That night, I dreamed of the sword.
Not just the stranger's blade, but something darker, something older — a black blade wreathed in flames, cutting through a field of bodies.
At the center of it all stood a figure with a face I couldn't make out, but I knew somehow that it was him.
The one I'd have to face, someday.
The one who waited for me beyond all of this.
I woke just before dawn, my hands clammy and my heart hammering.
I didn't know his name yet.
But I could feel his presence already — like a shadow lurking just out of sight.
And for the first time, I felt the faintest edge of fear cut through the hope I'd been carrying.
---
But fear was good.
Fear meant I was alive.
And tomorrow, I'd climb the cliffs again.