Morning came quietly.
The forest around the village was still wrapped in pale mist when I stepped onto the training ground, sword already in hand. The air was cool, damp with the scent of earth and leaves, and every breath felt clean—sharper than the nights before.
I moved through the forms I had been taught, feet planted, blade rising and falling in steady arcs. My muscles protested faintly, a familiar ache that never truly left anymore, but it no longer slowed me. Each swing cut through the air with intention, not desperation.
A man stood a short distance away, watching me closely.
He was one of Rokar's companions—a seasoned swordsman with narrow eyes and a posture that never wasted motion. He didn't interrupt immediately. He waited, arms folded, letting me finish the sequence before stepping forward.
My wrist was nudged gently with the flat of his fingers.
"Skra-angle," he said simply, adjusting my grip. "Too wide. Skra-leave space."
I corrected it and tried again.
This time, he nodded once.
Behind us, Rokar was already awake and active, his voice carrying across the clearing as he drove the younger warriors through brutal drills. Shouts rang out, followed by the dull thuds of bodies hitting the ground and the sound of heavy, labored breathing. He pushed them until their limbs trembled, then pushed them again, refusing to let exhaustion become an excuse.
The training ground felt alive, filled with motion and sound that never truly faded. Steel rang against steel, feet scraped against packed earth, and voices rose in sharp bursts of instruction and effort.
Sham was there too—though I didn't notice him at first. It took time before my eyes caught on the far end of the clearing, where he moved among a group of sword users.
His blade work was different from mine. Where my movements still carried hesitation and correction, his flowed with quiet certainty. Each strike was efficient, controlled, stripped of excess motion. There was no wasted strength in his swings, no unnecessary flourish—only purpose.
Without realizing it, my gaze lingered.
As if he sensed the weight of it, Sham glanced up. Our eyes met across the clearing. He didn't smirk or laugh. There was no challenge in his expression. Instead, he inclined his head slightly—a quiet acknowledgment, nothing more.
Heat crept up my neck. I nodded back quickly, then returned my focus to my own blade, suddenly very aware of how closely I'd been watching.
The morning passed like that—steel meeting air, corrections given, sweat soaking into the earth beneath my feet. By noon, most of the warriors had dispersed, heading off to eat or rest.
I remained.
My arms trembled slightly as I finished another set, breath coming heavier now. That was when Rokar approached, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Skra-Arthur," he called. "Go home. Feast today."
I straightened, chest heaving. "I'll… train a bit more," I replied between breaths. "Then I'll go."
Rokar frowned.
"Skra-not listen," he said firmly. "Not forget, come today."
With that, he turned and left, boots crunching against gravel as he headed away from the clearing.
I watched his back for a moment—then tightened my grip and resumed training.
The sun had begun to sink by the time I finally stopped.
Light filtered through the trees at a lower angle now, shadows stretching long across the ground. Only then did I realize how quiet the training ground had become.
Too quiet.
I wiped my face, sheathed my sword, and headed back toward the house, legs heavy but steady.
That evening, a knock sounded at the door.
Before I could even push myself up from where I sat, Charlie was already at the door. He opened it smoothly, and Vaela stood outside, arms folded across her chest, her expression impatient in a familiar way.
She looked ready to speak—but stopped when I stepped into view behind Charlie.
"Sister Vaela," I said, genuinely surprised. "What brings you here?"
Her brow creased as if the answer should have been obvious.
"Skra-not know feast?" she asked bluntly. "Came to take you."
For a moment, I simply blinked. Then realization hit, and I let out a small breath.
"Right," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "Sorry."
Moments later, the three of us stepped out together, the sounds of laughter and music already drifting through the village air as we headed toward the feast.
The feast was already in full bloom when we arrived.
Laughter spilled through the open space, mingling with the smell of roasting meat and smoke. Fires crackled. Children ran between adults, chasing each other in wild circles. Someone was singing near the center, their voice rough but joyful, while others clapped along or danced in loose, unstructured steps.
It was… warm.
A thought struck me suddenly, sharp and unwelcome.
After the night my birthday had turned into a nightmare—after the blood, the screams, the way everything I knew had collapsed in a single evening—this was the first celebration I was attending.
Laughter drifted through the village ahead of us. Music. The smell of roasting meat. It all felt distant, unreal, like something meant for someone else.
My steps slowed without me realizing it.
Vaela noticed immediately. She turned, caught my wrist, and tugged me forward with a firmness that left no room for hesitation.
"Skra-come," she said firmly.
I stumbled a half-step, then followed.
Charlie followed quietly behind us, as always.
She pulled me toward a group gathered around a traditional dance—bodies moving in rhythm, feet stomping, hands clapping. The music was simple, raw, alive.
Vaela watched for a moment, then glanced at me.
"Skra-dance?"
I shook my head instantly. "No. I'm terrible at dancing."
She didn't respond. She just grabbed my hand and dragged me straight into the circle.
"Sister Vaela—!" I protested. "I really can't—"
"Skra-follow me."
She moved slowly at first, exaggerating the steps, her movements deliberate so I could mirror them. I felt stiff, awkward, painfully aware of my limbs.
People noticed almost immediately.
Some laughed openly, the sound light and careless, as if the moment were nothing more than harmless entertainment. Others leaned closer to one another, whispering behind their hands—words sharp enough that I didn't need to hear them clearly to understand.
Why is an outsider here?
Doesn't he have any shame?
Their eyes flicked toward me again and again, lingering with judgment rather than curiosity. Each glance pressed against my skin like heat, making my shoulders stiffen despite myself.
My face burned. But Vaela didn't loosen her grip—not even a little.
She moved with easy confidence, repeating the steps again and again, guiding me forward, nudging my feet into place whenever I hesitated or missed a beat. Each time I stiffened, she corrected me without a comment.
Slowly—somehow—my body stopped fighting it.
I stopped thinking about where to place my feet. Stopped worrying about how ridiculous I looked.
I just… moved.
It wasn't graceful. It definitely wasn't impressive.
But it wasn't a disaster either.
Laughter drifted around us again—not sharp, not cruel, but light and amused. When I dared to glance sideways, I caught Charlie watching from the edge of the crowd.
For the briefest moment, there was a faint smile on his face.
Eventually, Vaela slowed to a stop and finally released my hand, stepping back to look me over with an unmistakable glint of amusement in her eyes.
"Skra-dance good," she said, clearly enjoying herself.
I let out a long groan, rubbing the back of my neck. "Stop. I really don't dance that well."
Charlie, who had been watching quietly from the side, chose that moment to speak. "Young master, you danced well."
I turned to him in disbelief. "Not you too."
For a heartbeat, both of them held it in—then Vaela laughed outright, sharp and bright, and even Charlie's composure cracked, a rare chuckle escaping him as the noise and warmth of the feast carried on around us.
We wandered the feast after that watching and listening. That was when we spotted Rokar—shirtless, flexing dramatically as a group of wide-eyed children stared up at him.
"Skra-muscle see!" he declared proudly. "Skra-abs! Skra-chest!"
I couldn't stop the smile that crept onto my face.
Vaela, on the other hand, completely lost it. She doubled over laughing, sharp and unrestrained.
Rokar froze mid-pose, veins standing out as he snapped his head toward her. "Skra-what funny!?"
"Skra-nothing," Vaela shot back between laughs, clearly enjoying his irritation far too much.
Rokar scowled. "Skra-want fight?"
Vaela straightened just enough to meet his glare, eyes flashing. "Skra-want die?"
They stared each other down for a tense second—then both turned away at the same time, crossing their arms.
"Hmph."
I shook my head, still smiling, as the laughter and warmth of the feast swallowed the moment whole.
Suddenly, a hush gradually spread across the feast.
The leader had arrived.
The atmosphere shifted the moment he stepped into view. Instead of quieting, the feast swelled with renewed energy—cheers rising, voices growing louder, excitement rippling through the crowd as people straightened and turned toward him.
The elders followed behind in quiet order, their presence commanding authority without a single word—Elder Thryssa among them, her expression calm, composed, and as unreadable as ever.
I watched from where I stood, silent and still.
Then—just for a heartbeat—the leader's gaze slid across the crowd and landed on me.
My chest tightened.
It wasn't hostile or curious but felt deliberate.
The look vanished as quickly as it came, his attention shifting elsewhere, but the tension it left behind lingered like a hand pressed against my throat.
Why…?
Why has he been glancing at me like that—since yesterday?
I pushed the thought aside and steadied my breath, letting the unease sink into the background as we continued to wander through the feast.