The next few days felt different.
The village was still the same — rough wooden homes, smoke curling from cooking fires, the steady rhythm of hunters coming and going — but Alaric could feel the stares wherever he walked.
When he and Ryn went to fetch water, children peeked from behind barrels, whispering, pointing.
"That's him."
"The boy with the glowing staff."
When he passed the hunters' training field, men paused mid-swing, eyes narrowing or lingering. Some nodded with quiet respect. Others turned away with frowns.
Alaric pulled his hood lower over his messy snow-white hair, grumbling to himself. "Perfect. Just what I wanted. Celebrity status in a place where the biggest event is who caught the fattest boar."
Ryn snorted, shouldering his wooden sword as they walked. "You should be proud. They're finally taking you seriously."
"Yeah, seriously weird." Alaric kicked a pebble down the path, his golden eyes narrowing. "If I wanted people watching me all the time, I'd have been born a noble."
Ryn raised a brow. "You… kind of were."
"Technicality," Alaric muttered, looking away.
Later that day, Kael called the boys to the training yard. His scarred face was as stern as ever, his thick arms folded as he watched them approach.
"Ryn," he said, nodding once, "your progress is steady. Keep it up."
Ryn straightened with pride. "Yes, sir."
Then Kael's gaze slid to Alaric. "And you."
Alaric tilted his head, staff resting lazily across his shoulders. "Me? The prodigy, the miracle worker, the guy who saved your hide? That me?"
Kael's jaw tightened. "The reckless child who nearly burned through his life force in one spell. Yes, that you."
Ryn stifled a laugh. Alaric scowled. "Way to make me sound impressive."
"You have skill, no one denies that," Kael said, voice even. "But skill without discipline is a blade without a hilt. Dangerous to everyone — including yourself. From today, you'll train with the hunters in the mornings."
Alaric groaned loudly. "Mornings? Ugh. Do I look like someone built for mornings?"
Kael's sharp gaze didn't budge. "You want to live? Then get used to them."
Ryn grinned as Alaric dragged his feet toward the practice dummies. "Come on, hero. Time to earn your reputation."
Alaric muttered under his breath, "Hero, he says. More like unpaid labor."
But he raised his staff anyway, golden eyes glinting faintly as he squared up to the dummy. For all his complaints, his hands tightened with focus.
Lazy or not, he couldn't run from this anymore.
The training yard was noisy that morning.
Hunters swung their spears against wooden posts, the sound of wood cracking filling the air. Others practiced footwork, boots grinding into the dirt, moving in sharp patterns under Kael's watchful eye.
Alaric stood off to the side, yawning so hard his jaw cracked. His staff rested across his shoulders, his arms draped over it like he was about to nap standing up. His snow-white hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and his golden eyes half-lidded.
Kael's voice cut sharp. "Alaric. Line up."
Alaric shuffled forward with all the energy of a man walking to his own execution. He slid into place beside Ryn, who looked way too eager for this kind of punishment.
Kael clapped his hands once. "Warm-ups. Ten laps around the yard."
Ryn dashed forward immediately. The other hunters followed, moving with practiced strides.
Alaric groaned. "Ten laps? Do I look like I have the legs for that?"
Kael's glare cut across the yard. "Move."
Alaric sighed, dragging his feet at first. After the first lap, he already looked half-dead. By the fifth, he was crawling more than running. By the ninth, Ryn had doubled back to push him along.
"Come on, lazy bones," Ryn snapped, half dragging him.
"This is child abuse," Alaric wheezed, his pale face drenched in sweat. "I'm a scholar-type. I'm supposed to sit under a tree and wave my staff around."
Kael's voice rang out. "If you can complain, you can run faster."
Alaric muttered, "If I survive this, I'm haunting you."
After the laps, Kael handed him a wooden spear.
"Form. Show me what you know."
Alaric stared at the weapon like it was some kind of alien object. "You expect me to fight with this twig? I already have a staff, thanks."
Kael's gaze hardened. "Magic fails. Arms never do. Again—form."
Alaric sighed and copied what he remembered from watching Ryn. His stance was off, his grip sloppy, and when he thrust forward, the spear wobbled so badly that the hunters snorted behind their hands.
"See?" Alaric shrugged, letting the butt of the spear drag in the dirt. "Useless."
Kael's jaw clenched. He moved behind Alaric, gripping his arms and adjusting his stance with firm, precise pressure.
"Feet apart. Weight forward. Spear straight. Again."
Alaric groaned. "This is cruel and unusual punishment."
"Again."
He stabbed forward, this time steadier.
"Again."
His arms shook.
"Again."
His breath grew ragged. Sweat poured down his neck.
And then something shifted. The spear no longer wobbled. His body found a rhythm, faint but there, his muscles syncing with each thrust.
Kael stepped back, eyes narrowing with the faintest flicker of approval. "Better."
Alaric collapsed onto the dirt, panting, staff forgotten at his side. "Define better. Because I feel like death."
Ryn smirked, sweat dripping down his own brow. "Better than you usually are."
Alaric glared at him weakly. "…Traitor."
Kael dismissed them when the sun was high, and Alaric trudged back toward the shade, collapsing against the nearest tree. His limbs ached, his chest heaved, and every bone in his body screamed.
But somewhere under all that pain, a spark of satisfaction lingered.
He'd survived. He hadn't quit. And for a heartbeat or two, he'd even looked like a real fighter.
He closed his golden eyes, muttering, "Fine. Maybe mornings aren't… completely evil."
Ashen's shadow fell across him. The pale man stood there, calm and silent as ever, holding out a flask of water.
Alaric took it with a groan. "…Thanks, zombie-dad."
Ashen's silver eyes softened, just a fraction.
By the time the sun dipped low, the village settled into its evening rhythm. Smoke curled up from cooking fires, the smell of stew thick in the air. Children darted between houses, laughing, their voices carrying over the quiet clatter of pots and tools.
Alaric dragged his tired body through the square, his staff slung across his back like dead weight. Every step made his legs scream. His snow-white hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his tunic sticking uncomfortably to his back.
"Hey," a hunter called as he passed, half a grin tugging at his lips. "Didn't think you'd last the morning."
Another chuckled. "Kid's stubborn. Got spirit."
Alaric blinked at them, surprised. For once, there was no suspicion in their eyes—just simple recognition.
"…Great," he muttered, scratching at his messy hair. "Now I'm officially part of the workforce. Tragic."
Ryn bumped his shoulder as he walked past, smirking. "Don't pretend you hated it. You kept up, more or less."
"I almost died."
"You always almost die."
"Fair point."
They reached the food stalls where some villagers had gathered. A woman ladled stew into bowls and, without a word, handed one to Alaric. Her gaze was softer than before, a quiet nod of thanks passing between them.
Alaric stared at the bowl in his hands. For all his grumbling, something about it felt… different. Like he wasn't just tolerated here anymore. He was being included.
He blew on the steaming broth and muttered, "…Don't look at me like that, I'm not tearing up. It's just hot soup."
Ryn rolled his eyes. "Sure."
Ashen lingered a short distance away, his pale figure blending into the shadows at the edge of the square. His silver-gray eyes followed Alaric as he sat down with the others, bowl in hand. For a moment, something faint flickered across his face—approval, pride, perhaps even warmth.
The night carried on, laughter mixing with the crackle of fire, the beast's shadow from days before already beginning to fade.
And for the first time since he'd arrived in the village, Alaric realized he wasn't just surviving anymore.
He… belongs.