I woke to the faint golden light filtering through the cracks in the shutters, my muscles stiff but not as sore as yesterday. The warmth from the hot spring still seemed to cling to my skin, though the air was cooler now. I stretched, feeling every tendon pull, then set about my first small task of the day — sweeping the floor.
The broom scratched softly over the worn planks, gathering dust into small piles. The air smelled faintly of dried herbs and ash from the hearth. I worked in slow, even strokes, enjoying the rhythm. The striped cat was already sitting by the doorway, watching me with unblinking eyes as if judging the thoroughness of my work.
When I passed close, I reached a hand toward it, fingers loose, palm down. It didn't run — not this time — but leaned back just enough to keep my touch from landing. My fingertips brushed the air where its fur should have been, and I couldn't help but smirk. "One day," I whispered, "you'll let me."
I had just swept the last corner when a shift in the air made me look up.
He was there.
The master's presence filled the room without sound, as if the air itself carried him in. His dark hair was tied back, a few loose strands framing his face, and his gaze swept over the space before settling on me. My pulse jumped, unhelpfully.
"Outside," he said simply, turning toward the courtyard.
I followed, keeping my steps even, steady. The morning light was crisp, carrying the scent of wet stone and pine. We began the same movements as before — stance, breath, the pull and push of energy through the limbs. I tried to focus on the feel of the ground under my feet, on the slow inhale and exhale, but every time I caught a glimpse of the way his shoulders moved under his robe or the curve of his wrist in motion, my thoughts scattered like startled birds.
Calm down, I told myself. This is training, not a daydream. My breath caught once, twice, before I finally found the rhythm again. My legs burned as I sank deeper into the stance, my arms aching as I followed his form, trying to make each movement match his exactly. He corrected me with a brief touch to my elbow — light, impersonal — yet it sent a ripple down my spine.
By the time we finished, sweat dampened my back and my legs trembled. But my mind… it was quieter than it had been in days.
The next morning, I woke before the first light touched the windows. The air felt cooler than yesterday, crisp enough to make my breath faintly mist in front of me. I tied my hair up and reached for the broom. The wooden handle felt worn and smooth under my fingers, a comfort I hadn't expected to find in something so ordinary.
The cat was already there, curled lazily on the far corner of the floor. Its eyes tracked my every movement—half suspicion, half curiosity. I swept carefully around it, pushing dust and bits of dry leaves toward the doorway. Every now and then, I stole a glance at its tail flicking idly, a sign it wasn't entirely sure about me.
"Alright… just a little closer," I murmured under my breath, crouching low and stretching my hand toward it. My fingers hovered just above its fur. The cat twitched, ears back for a moment, but didn't move away. My fingertips brushed against the warmth of its back—soft, smooth, alive. I felt a small, ridiculous smile tug at my lips before I straightened up and went back to sweeping.
By the time I finished, I heard the familiar sound of footsteps approaching—steady, measured. I didn't have to turn around to know it was him.
"You're ready?" he asked simply, his voice as calm as ever.
I nodded, setting the broom aside. My muscles already remembered the ache from yesterday, but I wasn't about to show weakness.
We began the training—stances, strikes, breathing. His presence was overwhelming, not just in voice or posture, but in the way he moved. Precise. Grounded. Strong. I tried to focus on the rhythm of my own movements, to keep my gaze on the wooden sword in my hands and not the lines of his body as he demonstrated each technique.
But it was impossible not to notice—the way his shoulders shifted, the controlled strength in every step. My thoughts kept wandering, and every time they did, my form slipped.
"Again," he said quietly, stepping closer to correct my stance. His hand pressed lightly at my shoulder, guiding it back. "Calm your mind. If you think about anything else, you lose the strike before it begins."
I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing myself to focus. I breathed in deeply, grounding myself in the scent of the wood, the faint dust in the air, and the sound of the hot spring outside. Little by little, I managed to silence my thoughts, until there was only the movement, the rhythm, and the soft, steady sound of his voice counting each strike.
... In the evening i went to hunt...
I left the quiet safety of the village through the hidden stone passage once again, my small wooden sword in hand. The air in the forest was cool and damp, wrapping around me like a secret. My footsteps crunched over twigs and fallen leaves, but my mind… my mind was far too loud. No matter how I tried to focus on the sounds of the woods, his face kept creeping back in—the way his voice lingered, the way his presence filled a space without effort. I forced myself to exhale and press the thoughts down. I was here to hunt, not to be distracted by a man who clearly enjoyed teasing me.
The forest seemed still, almost watchful. I searched for movement in the undergrowth, pausing every few steps, but there was nothing—no rabbit, no bird in reach. I followed a faint path uphill, my eyes scanning for any sign of food. Then, a soft, sweet scent caught my attention.
Pushing through a tangle of branches, I found it—a wild fruit tree heavy with bright, ripe orbs, their skin glowing faintly in the dappled light. My stomach growled. I reached up and began picking greedily, filling the folds of my tunic until it could hold no more. The juice ran over my fingers as I worked, sticky and fragrant.
I smiled to myself. These could last me for days. Then a thought struck me—if I could pickle them somehow, I could keep them even longer. The memory of jars lined neatly in my childhood home drifted into my mind, bringing with it a small ache of nostalgia.
With my load of fruit, I made my way back through the stone passage to the village. The silence of the abandoned houses greeted me like ghosts of their former owners. I peered inside one, then another, until I spotted what I was searching for—pots. Dusty, chipped, and forgotten, but still whole. Perfect for boiling water or preserving fruit. I hugged the largest one to my chest, feeling a small swell of triumph.
Today had been a good day.