I wake up before the alarm.
Not with a jolt or anything dramatic. Just... awake. This has been happening more lately—my body expecting something before my mind catches up, refusing to let rest do its job completely.
The room is still dark. Jonric's breathing is steady and deep on the other side. I lie there for a minute, listening to it, trying to match my own breathing to his rhythm. My shoulders are stiff again. My right knee feels tight, like it never actually loosened up last night.
I sit up anyway.
The slip of paper is still folded in my work pants from yesterday, right where I left it before going to sleep. I touch it once just to make sure it's real. The time written on it is burned into my memory already.
Early.
I get dressed more carefully than usual today. Not slower—just paying more attention. I lace my boots one notch looser than yesterday. When I put on my cloak, it pulls slightly across my upper back when I roll my shoulders. The fabric feels heavier than it should. I adjust it and decide that's good enough.
Outside, the district is quieter than I'm used to. Fewer doors opening. Fewer people on the streets. The air feels thicker somehow, cooler, like nobody's disturbed it yet. I walk at a steady pace, not rushing, letting my stride settle into a rhythm before I reach the inner road.
The training hall looks completely different in the early morning light.
The stone walls are darker, damp with dew. The lamps outside are still burning, but their glow seems pointless now. There are already a handful of people gathered near the entrance. Not many. Fewer than there were last night when I came to sign up.
I recognize a couple of faces from the worksite. The others are strangers. Everyone stands apart from each other, not talking much, with their hands tucked into sleeves or pockets. Nobody looks comfortable.
I take a spot near the edge of the group and wait.
The door swings open without any warning or announcement. A man steps out—broad shoulders, hair pulled back tight against his skull. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't have to.
"If you're here, step inside," he says flatly.
No greeting. No welcome. No explanation.
We move together as a group, boots scraping softly against the stone floor. Inside, the hall smells like old wood and lamp oil and something sharp underneath—metal, maybe, or sweat that's soaked into the walls. The space is bigger than I expected but completely bare. No decorations. No banners. Just weapon racks along the walls and an open floor marked with faint scuffs and lines worn into the stone from years of use.
"Name," the man says, pointing at the first person in line.
They answer. He gestures them to the side without comment.
When it's my turn, I step forward. "Raven Vale."
His eyes flick over me quickly. He's not dismissing me—he's assessing. Measuring.
"What work do you do?" he asks.
"Labor. Loading docks mostly."
There's a pause. Barely noticeable. Then he nods and waves me through to join the others.
We're arranged in a loose line along the far wall. The instructor walks slowly along the length of it, stopping every few people to adjust someone's stance with a tap of his boot or a quick word.
When he reaches me, he stops completely.
"Stand up straight," he says.
I do. Or at least I think I do.
He frowns slightly and reaches out, pressing two fingers firmly between my shoulder blades. "This is straight for you?"
I swallow. "As straight as it gets."
He stares at me for another long second, then steps back. "We'll see about that."
He moves on down the line.
We start with basic movement drills. Simple things that shouldn't be hard. Walking in patterns. Shifting weight from heel to toe. Turning without losing your balance. For some of the people here, it looks easy. Natural.
For me, it's immediately revealing.
I feel it right away—the way my right leg drags just a tiny fraction behind my left when we turn. The way my shoulders resist certain angles, tightening up instead of moving smoothly. The instructor is watching everything. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.
By the time we move into basic conditioning exercises, sweat is already running down my back. My breathing stays under control, but my muscles are burning in that familiar way that tells me exactly how long I can keep this up before the cost starts piling up too high.
I adjust. Make my movements shorter. Cut out anything wasted.
The instructor notices immediately.
"Don't hold back," he says without even looking directly at me. "Perform the exercise properly."
"I am," I reply.
He finally turns to face me. His gaze sharpens like a blade. "No, you're managing. That's not the same thing as performing."
I don't argue with him. I just push harder.
The burn in my muscles gets deeper. My form starts to slip slightly, then I force it back under control. I can feel how narrow my margins are—like a physical boundary I'm constantly pressed against. The difference between strain and actual injury feels paper-thin.
Around me, other people are starting to struggle. One guy stumbles and catches himself on the wall. Another drops to one knee and stays there, breathing hard like he might throw up. They're both dismissed without a word.
The rest of us keep going.
Time stops making sense. There's no clock, no way to tell how long we've been moving. Just the constant rhythm of effort and the endless mental calculation of how much I can give without losing control completely.
Finally, the instructor raises one hand.
"Enough," he says simply.
We stop. Some people sag immediately, barely staying on their feet. I don't let myself do that. I stay standing even though my legs are trembling slightly when I shift my weight. I keep my breathing slow and measured.
The instructor walks down the line again, studying each of us.
"You're all going to feel worse tomorrow," he says matter-of-factly. "That's normal. If you don't show up because of it, you're finished here. No second chances."
He stops directly in front of me.
"You," he says, staring at me hard. "You're too tight. Everything about you is locked up."
"Yes, sir," I say.
"That's not a compliment."
"I know."
For the first time, something that might be amusement flickers across his face. It disappears almost instantly, like it was never there.
"Come back early tomorrow," he says. "Earlier than you came today."
I nod once. "I will."
He moves on to the next person.
We're dismissed just as quietly as we were let in.
Outside, the day has fully started now. The light feels harsh and too bright after the dim interior of the hall. I stand there for a moment, blinking, letting the world settle back into focus around me. My muscles feel... different. Not better exactly. Just changed somehow.
On the walk home, every single step requires adjustment. My body protests in small, specific ways—a tightness here, a soreness there. I listen carefully to each complaint, cataloging them all in my mental list.
This is what structure feels like, I realize.
Not relief.
Not improvement.
Just pressure.
Constant, measured pressure.
I reach our door and pause with my hand on the latch. I take one long, steadying breath before pushing it open and going inside.
Jonric is awake, eating bread at the small table. He looks up when I enter.
"How was it?" he asks.
I pull off my cloak and hang it on the hook. "Hard."
"That's it? Just hard?"
"Yeah." I sit down on my bed and start unlacing my boots. "That's it."
He watches me for a moment longer, then goes back to his breakfast. He knows better than to push.
I lie back on the bed and stare up at that crack in the ceiling. My whole body aches in new ways, different from the familiar ache of loading dock work. This ache feels more precise. More intentional.
Tomorrow it starts again.
Earlier than today.
The margins keep getting narrower, and I still don't know if that's progress or just pressure building toward something I can't see yet.
I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. In for four. Hold. Out for six.
Tomorrow comes whether I'm ready or not.