Third POV
Two months passed.
The slave camp was the same on the surface — the same gray skies, the same cold wind that slid between the wooden huts like a thief, the same smell of sweat and smoke clinging to everything. But for Elias, something had changed.
Every night, when the camp grew silent, when even the guards' patrols began to stagger in boredom, he slipped away.
It wasn't far — just to the narrow strip of ground behind the old blacksmith's shed where Garon worked during the day. The spot was shielded from most lines of sight, and the ground there was hard-packed from years of hammering and foot traffic. Perfect for what he needed.
The Ironhide Frame.
First POV
The manual was as plain as its name — no poetic flourishes, no mystical diagrams of energy flowing through the stars. Just a set of movements, breathing patterns, and stances that looked simple until you tried to hold them.
The first night I trained, my legs trembled after a minute. My lungs burned. My ribs felt like they were being squeezed in a vice.
The technique demanded precision: inhale for a count of ten heartbeats, hold for five, exhale for ten, then force the muscles to tighten and hold the stance without moving a hair. Over and over.
By the end of that night, I'd collapsed twice and nearly vomited.
It didn't get much easier.
Third POV
The work during the day was brutal enough. Elias hauled logs, shoveled snow, carried buckets of water up the long slope to the sect's kitchens. His hands were constantly blistered, his shoulders always sore.
Training after all of that was worse.
His muscles were already spent, his back bent from labor. He trained until sweat dripped onto the frozen dirt, until the cold air felt like glass in his lungs.
Progress came slow — painfully slow. But he felt it in the smallest ways: his breath lasting a few heartbeats longer, his stance holding a few seconds more before his knees buckled.
And, most of all, the growing density in his muscles — a faint but undeniable solidity.
First POV
The food was the worst part. The manual said nothing about diet, but my body screamed for more than the handful of bread and watery stew they gave us. Some nights I went to bed with my stomach twisting like it was eating itself.
But I didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
Every session, I imagined the chains on my wrists breaking. I imagined standing over the sect's disciples, looking down instead of up. I imagined Lydia and Sam free.
Third POV
It was the middle of the second month when it happened.
Elias had finished a training session and was heading back to the slaves' sleeping quarters. The night was deep, the moon a pale sliver barely giving any light. He moved carefully, hugging the shadows between huts.
But luck wasn't with him.
Two guards turned the corner just as he was crossing the open stretch between the blacksmith's shed and the main longhouse.
First POV
"Where've you been, rat?" one of them asked, stepping into my path. His breath smelled of rice wine.
"Pissing," I said.
The other one laughed — a low, ugly sound. "At this hour? You think we're stupid?"
I didn't answer.
That was my mistake.
The first guard's fist caught me in the gut, driving the air from my lungs. I staggered but didn't go down. The second swung a short baton into my ribs.
It hurt. Of course it hurt. But… not like before. The blows sank in, but my body absorbed them in a way it hadn't before I started training.
Third POV
The guards didn't notice Elias's faint surprise. They kept at it — blows to his back, ribs, shoulders. When they grew bored, they shoved him to the ground and spit near his face.
"Next time," one said, "make sure we don't see you creeping around. Or we'll drag you to the post."
They left, their boots crunching over the frost.
First POV
I lay there for a while, breathing hard. My side throbbed where the baton had landed, and my stomach still felt like it had been punched through.
But I could move. I could get up.
Before the Ironhide Frame, a beating like that would've left me coughing blood. Now, it was… manageable.
I almost laughed.
Third POV
From that night on, the guards seemed to take an interest in Elias. Whether it was suspicion or just cruelty, they started giving him the worst work — the heaviest loads, the dirtiest tasks.
When he lagged, they hit him. When he didn't lag, they found another excuse.
First POV
They thought they were breaking me.
They didn't know they were training me.
Every sack of grain I carried, every bucket of water I hauled, every blow they gave me — I pushed it into the Ironhide Frame, into my breathing, into my stance. I worked my body until it was a raw, aching thing, then worked it more.
There were nights my legs shook so badly I thought they'd snap. Mornings where I could barely lift my arms.
But each time, I forced myself through the pain.
Because the pain meant progress.
Third POV
By the end of the second month, the difference was visible to the few who paid attention.
Elias moved with a little more steadiness, his posture straighter even after a full day's labor. His shoulders seemed broader, his grip on tools firmer.
To the guards and most of the slaves, it was nothing worth noticing. To Elias, it was the first brick in the foundation he was building.
First POV
I'd lie on the hard floor of the sleeping quarters at night, my body aching, my stomach empty — and smile.
They couldn't see it. But I was changing.
And they couldn't stop it.