The butcher shop opened at seven sharp, its oil lamps casting a dim glow over the worn wooden counters. Ryan arrived early, tying on his stained apron and sharpening his knife with steady, practised strokes. The morning air hung cool and crisp as the first delivery from the Hunter's Guild rolled in—two boars and a horned hare. By noon, the scent of fresh meat and iron permeated the space.
Ryan worked until six, his hands swift and precise. His cuts were clean, his waste minimal—a quiet efficiency that earned him respect among the five butchers who labored shoulder to shoulder. Graham, the shop owner, leaned on him more than he let on.
"Ryan," Graham called from his perch by the ledger, "mind the hindquarter. It's for the Hill Row client."
"Clean," Ryan replied, eyes fixed on his task as he slid the trimmed piece onto the scale.
Henric, a grizzled veteran among the crew, glanced over and gave a curt nod. "Kid's got a knack," he muttered to Tomas, who grunted in agreement.
The team earned two bronze a day during the heavy season, now in full swing with the Hunter Guild's kill counts surging. Shops like Graham's thrived on tight contracts, and slow hands didn't last. Ryan, the youngest by far, held his own.
"Leave the rest, kid," Henric said, wiping down his table as the day wound down. "We'll finish tomorrow."
Graham looked up. "Take the spare meat, Ryan. It's your day."
Ryan nodded, wrapping the cut in cloth. After a simple meal of stew and bread provided by the shop, he scrubbed the blood and grime from his skin at the back sink. Tomas clapped him on the shoulder as the others packed up.
"Night, Ryan."
"See you tomorrow," he replied, slinging his small pack over his shoulder and stepping into the fading light.
The streets outside buzzed with life—blacksmiths hammered, grocers shouted prices, and low-tier nobility mingled with farmers and guild apprentices. Ryan wove through the working-class district, his pace steady, unnoticed by the crowd. His twenty-minute walk led him past the town's edge to a quiet border near Cipher Woods, where his modest wooden house stood alone. Simple but sturdy, with a solid roof and stone stove, he kept it clean and locked.
Aurelia had shifted in recent years. Three winters prior, a witch had escaped the kingdom's prison, unleashing a plague in vengeance. Dozens perished, including Ryan's parents, their bodies burned with countless others to halt the curse's spread. The witch met her end, but the scars lingered. Now, the knighthood patrolled the streets and forest paths, keeping Cipher Woods—home to beginner-level beasts like boars and forest wolves—safe enough for young hunters. Fertile soil and steady trade kept the town alive.
At home, Ryan checked the snares he'd set around his property—simple twine traps that occasionally snagged rabbits, supplementing the shop's biweekly meat allowance. Tonight, one held a catch. He reset the empty traps and carried the rabbit to a small field behind his house, where wild berry shrubs and common herbs like Bitterleaf and Swellroot grew. These he'd cultivated after overhearing a vendor describe their use as affordable substitutes for Redcap Root, a costly herb favored by knights for muscle recovery.
Inside, he filled a small iron pot with water and crushed herbs, setting it to steep by a shallow pond fed by a spring. While it brewed, he changed into training gear—sand-filled sacks sewn into makeshift weights, tied to his arms, legs, and chest. For months, he'd followed a regimen inspired by a knight he'd observed training Graham's sons behind the shop. The rough-voiced swordsman emphasized endurance over swordplay, barking at the boys when they begged for blades.
"You don't get a sword until your body's ready," Ryan recalled him shouting, a lesson he took to heart.
He ran four laps around his property, each taking twenty minutes, the sand weights dragging at his limbs. Then came push-ups, squats, and planks—grueling routines etched into his memory. Five months of unbroken discipline, hidden from prying eyes.
When he finished, breathless and sore, he poured the herbal brew into the pond and stepped in. The cool water stung, then soothed his aching muscles. Afterward, he dried off, ate a meager meal of boiled root and dried rabbit, and sat by the fire.
As he sat by the fire, eating alone, his thoughts drifted.
He remembered their faces — his mother's calloused hands, always warm when she ruffled his hair; his father's voice, low and steady when teaching him how to tie a line or carve a bone. It had been three years, but the memories hadn't dulled. If anything, they pressed harder on quiet nights like this.
Tears welled in his eyes — slow, quiet. They slipped down his cheeks without sound or shuddering breath. There was no drama to it, no break in posture. He just sat there, shoulders still, eyes wet, letting the silence carry it.
There had been no burial. Like hundreds of others, their bodies were burned during the height of the plague — a necessary cruelty, ordered by the Knighthood when the witch's curse swept through the province. No grave to visit. No stone to clean.
Just ashes, and memories.
But even as the pain lingered, so did the goal — a single, distant path he'd overheard once, months ago, when the knight was speaking to Graham.
The Academy of Aurelia.
A place where, he'd heard, anyone could awaken their potential — commoner or noble, orphan or heir — as long as they passed the entrance trial. No titles mattered there. No name. Only strength.
That was the path he was carving toward. That was why the weights stayed tied, why the training never paused, why he endured in silence.
Tomorrow, he would wake again before dawn.
And run.
Tomorrow, he'd rise before dawn and begin again.