279 AC — Age 7
Maege said no without raising her voice.
She didn't look up from the table when she did it. Her quill scratched once more across the parchment, finished the line it was on, and only then did she set it aside and meet my eyes.
"No," she said again, as if repetition might make it clearer.
It did.
I stood where I'd been told to stand—just inside the solar, close enough to be present and far enough away to not interrupt unless invited. My ribs still ached when I breathed too deeply. The bruises from the other day had faded into dull yellows and greens, the kind that hurt less but lingered longer.
I had waited until the ache settled into something manageable before asking.
That had been my first mistake.
The second was assuming that patience earned permission.
"Why not?" I asked.
Maege's expression didn't change. "Because I said no."
That answer was complete in a way most people's weren't.
I shifted my weight, careful not to put pressure on my sore side. "I can do it."
"I know."
That surprised me enough that I looked up properly.
Maege leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled loosely, eyes sharp but not unkind. "Your ability is not the question."
"Then what is?" I asked.
"Timing," she replied. "And cost."
I frowned. Those were words I understood separately, but not together.
She watched me think and didn't interrupt.
The request itself was simple enough.
Gerren had taken a small group of boys down to the lower yard that morning—older than me, mostly—and I'd watched them practice basic drills from the gallery. Nothing impressive. Just shields, footwork, the slow repetition of movements that built habits before strength.
I wanted to join them.
Not because I thought I'd win anything. Not because I wanted to prove something.
I wanted to be there.
"I won't get in the way," I said.
Maege's mouth twitched faintly. "You always do."
That wasn't an insult. It was an observation.
"I'll stay at the edge," I tried. "I'll just watch."
"You already do that," she replied.
I hesitated, then said the real reason. "I don't want to be the smallest anymore."
That finally made her sigh.
She stood, walked around the table, and stopped in front of me. Up close, I could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the way exhaustion sat deeper than any bruise ever had.
"You won't be," she said. "Not forever."
"That doesn't help now."
"No," she agreed. "It doesn't."
She crouched so we were closer to eye level. Her movements were careful, measured. She'd been doing that more often lately—adjusting the world to meet people halfway instead of forcing them to look up.
"That fight the other day," she said quietly. "What did you learn?"
I hesitated.
I knew better than to answer too quickly.
"That I shouldn't have been there," I said.
"Yes."
"And?" she prompted.
"That standing still hurts," I added.
Her eyebrow rose slightly. "It does."
I thought about it, about the stick snapping against my arm, about the moment I'd gone down and the world had narrowed to pain and dirt.
"That wanting something doesn't mean I'm ready for it," I said finally.
Maege studied me for a long moment.
"That," she said, "is why the answer is still no."
She straightened and turned away, the conversation apparently finished.
I stayed where I was.
That was deliberate.
Maege noticed. She always did.
"Speak," she said without turning.
"I don't understand how waiting helps," I said. "If I don't practice, I won't be ready."
She turned back then, eyes sharp. "And if you practice too early, you'll learn the wrong things."
"Like what?"
"Like relying on strength you don't have yet," she replied. "Like taking hits you can't afford. Like confusing pain with progress."
That landed harder than I expected.
She gestured toward the door. "Come."
We didn't go to the yard. We went the other way, deeper into the keep, to a narrow corridor that overlooked the storage rooms below. From there, you could see people moving through the space—servants, guards, a few men-at-arms shifting supplies.
"Watch," Maege said.
I did.
A man struggled with a crate, trying to lift it alone. He grunted, adjusted his grip, and tried again. On the third attempt, another man stepped in without a word and took the other side. Together, they moved it easily.
"He could have done it alone," I said.
"Yes," Maege replied. "Eventually."
"But he didn't."
"No."
She waited.
"Because it would have taken longer," I said slowly. "And tired him out."
"And if he's tired," Maege added, "he makes mistakes."
I nodded.
"That's training," she said. "Not what Gerren does. This. Learning when not to push."
I frowned. "But Gerren makes me push."
"Yes," she agreed. "When I tell him to."
That distinction mattered more than it should have.
The rest of the day passed without incident.
I wasn't sent to the yard. I wasn't given another task to replace it. I was told to sit near the hearth with Dacey while Alysane slept, and that was it.
Dacey was building something out of scraps of wood and bits of twine, her tongue sticking out in concentration.
"You didn't go fight," she said without looking up.
"No."
"Did Maege say no?"
"Yes."
She nodded, unsurprised. "She says no a lot."
"Yes."
"Did you listen?"
"Yes."
She considered that. "That's boring."
"Yes," I agreed.
Later, when the keep settled into evening and the work slowed to its familiar rhythm, Gerren found me where I sat.
Maege was nearby. That mattered.
"You wanted in this morning," he said.
"Yes."
He studied me for a moment, then looked to Maege.
"Not yet," she said.
Gerren grunted. "Fair."
He turned back to me. "You didn't argue much."
"I tried," I said.
Maege snorted quietly.
Gerren smiled, brief and sharp. "That's practice too."
That night, I lay awake longer than usual.
Not because of pain.
Because of restraint.
In my other life, waiting had been passive. Something you did because you had no choice.
Here, waiting was active. Chosen. Enforced.
Maege's no wasn't a wall.
It was a shape.
Something that defined where I could move without breaking myself.
I didn't like it.
But I understood it.
And that, somehow, made it worse.