The stone never changed.
That was the first thing I understood.
Day after day, it lay there at the edge of the clearing—gray, uneven, rough against the skin. It wasn't shaped like a training tool. It wasn't balanced. It wasn't forgiving. Just a chunk of earth torn from the forest itself.
Rokar never replaced it.
Never adjusted it.
Never acknowledged it.
Lift.
Hold.
Lower.
Again.
The first day, my arms screamed before I could even settle into the stance. By the second, my shoulders felt as if they were tearing from their sockets. By the third, my hands split open, skin cracking where my grip tightened too hard. Blood soaked into the stone's rough surface, darkening it in places.
By the fourth day, the pain stopped feeling sharp.
It became constant.
A dull, crushing presence that settled into my muscles and bones like it had always belonged there.
A full week passed like that.
No praise.
No correction.
No mercy.
The only rest I got was what my body stole when it finally collapsed at night.
Vaela brought food once or twice a day—simple meals, heavy and filling. I ate slowly, chewing without taste, my jaw aching as much as the rest of me. When I finished, I lay back on the wooden floor beneath the tree growing through the roof, staring up at its branches.
Light filtered through the leaves differently each day. Morning gold. Afternoon white. Evening shadows.
The days blurred together.
Charlie stayed close.
Always nearby—but never in the way.
Sometimes he sat on a fallen log at the edge of the clearing, eyes half-lidded as if resting, though I knew he missed nothing.
Other times, he stood with his arms folded, his gaze fixed on me—no longer detached. There was concern there, carefully restrained, buried beneath discipline and restraint. His jaw would tighten when my legs trembled, his eyes following every unsteady breath, every stumble, as if memorizing my limits.
But he never spoke during training.
Never offered advice.
Never stepped in—no matter how many times my knees buckled or my grip slipped.
He watched it all in silence, concern present, but choicefully withheld.
And he never left.
No matter how long the sessions dragged on.
When Rokar dismissed me, Charlie would be there—close enough to catch me if I fell, steady enough to support my weight without a word.
His presence was constant.
Silent.
Unyielding.
Like a shadow that refused to abandon me.
On the seventh day, when I bent down and wrapped my arms around the stone again, something felt different.
It still hurt.
But it didn't crush me.
The eighth day began without warning.
Rokar didn't so much as glance at the stone that had ruled my world for the past week. He didn't gesture toward it. Didn't acknowledge it at all. Instead, he turned and pointed beyond the clearing.
"Skra-run."
That was all he said.
No distance given.
No pace set.
No explanation offered.
Just a direction—and an order.
My stomach sank as I followed the line of his finger.
There was no road.
No proper path meant for running.
The village had been built into the forest, not over it—wooden walkways weaving between roots, uneven ground rising and falling without warning, stones half-buried in dirt, tree trunks breaking the flow of movement at every turn. Beyond the clearing, it was nothing but chaos disguised as terrain.
No markers.
No boundaries.
No indication of where it would end.
Just trees, tangled roots, sudden slopes, and the cruel certainty that every step would demand more than the last.
It wasn't a run meant for speed.
It was a run meant to break me.
I started slow, unsure of what he expected. The forest floor was uneven—roots coiled beneath the dirt, stones hidden under leaves, sudden dips where the ground dropped without warning. Within minutes, my breathing fell apart. My lungs burned as if scraped raw, each inhale coming shorter than the last.
I tripped once.
My foot caught on a root I hadn't seen, and I went down hard, palms scraping against rough earth. Pain flared, sharp and immediate—but I didn't let it linger. I pushed myself up before the breath had even fully left my lungs.
Then it happened again.
A loose stone shifted beneath my heel, sending me stumbling forward. This time my knees hit first, a dull shock running up my legs. My vision swam for a heartbeat.
I didn't look back.
I didn't wait.
I forced myself upright again, teeth clenched, body screaming in protest. Each fall stole more strength, more air—but stopping felt worse than the pain.
Rokar never moved. He stood where he was, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me—not with impatience, not with anger.
Just watching.
Measuring how many times I would fall…
and whether I would keep getting back up.
By midday, my legs felt hollow. Sweat soaked through my clothes, bandages darkening beneath it. When I finally slowed, body swaying, vision narrowing, Rokar pointed back toward the clearing.
The stone was waiting.
It sat there in the clearing, unmoved and unbothered, exactly where Rokar had left it—wide, ugly, and impossibly heavy. For a brief, ridiculous moment, it felt like it was staring back at me.
Waiting.
I stared at it in return, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping down my temples.
My arms began to tremble before I even touched it, muscles already remembering the pain it promised. A quiet, bitter thought crossed my mind.
You again…? Haven't you had enough of me?
The stone, of course, didn't answer. It just sat there, silent and patient, like it knew how this would end.
Lift and Hold.
I bent down, fingers scraping against its rough surface, teeth clenching as I hauled it up inch by inch. My shoulders screamed instantly.
Lower.
My legs shook as I forced myself into the low stance, thighs burning, back protesting, breath coming in harsh bursts. The stone felt heavier than it had yesterday—like it had gained weight just to spite me.
Fatigue stacked on fatigue. Pain layered over pain. When my stance wavered, the half-healed wounds in my leg flared sharply—reminding me they weren't gone. Only quiet.
I didn't drop the stone.
Not quite.
I lowered it badly—arms shaking, balance failing, the stone landing crooked and uneven with a rough scrape against the ground. Pain shot up my wrists and shoulders as my grip finally slipped free.
Rokar said nothing.
He simply watched, as if the outcome had already been decided long before my muscles gave out.
It followed the same merciless rhythm, day after day, without variation or mercy.
Morning—run.
Through uneven paths and tangled roots, lungs burning, legs heavy, every step fighting the urge to stop.
Afternoon—stone.
Lift.
Hold.
Lower.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Evening—collapse.
By the time the sun dipped low, my body was no longer mine. I would fall where I stood, muscles trembling, vision blurring, breath coming in broken gasps—too exhausted to even think about moving.
And the next morning, it started all over again.
Days stopped having meaning. My body became a collection of sensations—burning thighs, aching shoulders, trembling hands, lungs that never quite felt full. Sleep came instantly, heavy and dreamless, dragging me under the moment I lay down.
Charlie stayed every night, he helped me stretch aching muscles, pressing carefully where the pain lingered longest.
Somewhere in the middle of the third week, I noticed something else.
My steps were steadier. My arms shook less when I lifted the stone. Pain no longer felt like a warning—it felt like a condition of existence.
One morning, Rokar made the run longer.
He didn't explain.
Didn't warn me.
He simply pointed farther into the village.
Another day, he demanded a lower stance while I held the stone. Lower than before. My thighs ignited with pain almost instantly, muscles screaming as they trembled under the strain. The world wavered—dark spots blooming at the edges of my vision—but Rokar didn't call a stop.
So I didn't either.
One afternoon, halfway through a run, my body nearly failed me.
My vision tunneled. My breath shattered into ragged gasps. My legs felt hollow, as if they might fold inward at any moment. Every instinct screamed at me to stop—to drop, to kneel, to give in.
So I slowed.
Step by step.
Breath by breath.
But I didn't stop moving.
Rokar watched me longer that day. His gaze followed every stagger, every uneven step—but he didn't interrupt. Didn't urge me on. Didn't end it early.
By the end of the fourth week, something finally settled into place.
This wasn't about breaking me.
It was about reshaping me.
At the end of one especially brutal day, I collapsed near the stone, my body twitching uncontrollably as if it no longer remembered how to rest. Sweat soaked through my clothes. My lungs burned with every breath.
Rokar stepped closer.
For a long moment, he simply looked down at me.
Then he spoke.
"Skra-foundation," he said.
He paused. "When skra-body stop fear pain…" His gaze sharpened slightly.
"…real train start."
I lay there, staring up through the tangled branches overhead, chest rising and falling in painful rhythm.
---
The village began to notice.
Warriors slowed as they passed the clearing, their footsteps easing as their attention drifted toward me. Some stopped outright. Others leaned against trees or rested their weapons on their shoulders, watching from a distance.
No one stepped in.
No one spoke.
A few exchanged glances. A few smirked faintly. Not cruel—but quietly amused, as if my struggle were an expected sight.
As I strained beneath the stone or staggered back from a run, I could feel their eyes on me.
Measuring. Comparing. Waiting to see how long I would last.
I clenched my jaw and kept going.
If they found entertainment in my suffering... then I'd give them a long show.