Escanor woke before light. The fire was almost dead. A few red coals hid under gray ash. The cave felt wide and cold. He listened. No voices. No feet. Only wind at the door and the slow breath of the river. He fed the coals dry twigs. A small flame grew. He watched it move and crack. It was the only thing alive near him. He stood and pushed the hide aside. Cold air touched his face. The sky was pale. The trees were tall and dark. The ground was wet and quiet. He said, hello. The word went nowhere. He said, anyone. Nothing answered. He walked to the river. He moved slow. Slow made time feel longer. He knelt and looked at the water. A strong face stared back. Hard jaw. Sharp eyes. Scars like thin white lines. A body that looked like stone and cord. He should feel proud. He did not. He felt a hole in his chest. It was wide. It was deep. He drank. The water was cold and clean. It filled his stomach. It did not touch the hole. He tossed a small stone. Ripples ran out, then died. He tossed another. The same. He stood and walked his loop. Fence. Corner post. Snare line. Big oak. Low hill. Back. His feet knew every root and stone. His step was quick and light. His breath was calm. His heart was steady. His mind was heavy. He checked the traps. One was sprung and empty. He fixed it. He tied the knot twice. He laid the line neat, not because it mattered, but because neat helped his head for a short time. He pushed a loose stake deeper and packed the dirt firm with his heel. He whispered, good. His voice sounded far. He went to the practice ring and took the spear. He threw once. The point bit deep. He pulled it free and threw again. Hit. Ten times. Fifteen. Twenty. None missed. His hands did not fail. His body did not fail. The hole stayed. He leaned on the spear and closed his eyes. A crow called far away. Then the world fell quiet again. He set the spear down and picked up the sword. He moved slow. Step. Cut. Guard. Step. Cut. Guard. He said the words in his head. The rhythm helped. He struck the tree. Bark cracked. He struck again. The trunk shook. He swung harder. The blade bit deep. Splinters flew. He swung with all his strength. The tree split with a loud crack and fell. The ground thumped. He stood still and watched the trunk lie across the dirt. He knew a normal man cannot do this. He was not a normal man now. He struck another tree. One clean line. He hit the same line twice more. Wood burst and the upper half tore away. He breathed hard and listened to the echo roll through the forest. No one saw. No one spoke. Only wind moved the leaves. He looked at his hands. Thick skin. Old cuts faded. Power under the skin like fire under stone. He whispered, I am strong. The words were true. He ate a little food. Smoked meat. Dried berries. He chewed slow. He drank water. He looked at the notch pole by the wall. One cut for each sunrise. So many cuts now. A year and more. He touched the first notch. He slid his finger to the last. He said, I lived. The cave did not answer. He sat by the fire. Sparks climbed and died. He thought about leaving. Walk north. Walk south. Build a raft and follow the shore. The thoughts were heavy. He stayed. He stood and trained again. He cut deep into a fresh trunk. He cut until sweat ran down his chest and arms. He cut until his shoulders burned. He stopped while his hands were still steady. He set the sword down and breathed. He whispered, I need a voice. The wind gave him none. He whispered, I need a face. The water gave him only his own. He picked up a heavy stone. He carried it to the river. He carried it back. He did it again. Ten trips. Twenty. Thirty. His breath grew loud. His arms burned clean. He kept going until pain was louder than the hole. He set the stone down and sat on it. He said, I will not break. He stood again and worked small things. He cut branches and stacked them. He braided bark into rope. He checked the fence line for gaps. He filled a sink with stones and packed dirt firm. He cleaned the fish pit. He swept the floor with stiff grass. Small things helped for a while. The sun rose higher. The clearing warmed. He cooked a fish on a flat stone. The smell filled the cave mouth. He ate while it was hot. He cleaned the stone and his hands. He stood in the light and lifted his arms. He said, I am here. The trees did not care. The sky did not care. He lowered his arms and looked at the training tree. He drew a fresh line on the bark with the tip of the sword. He took one breath and struck once. Wood opened. He struck the same line again. The trunk cracked. He struck a third time with full power. The top broke and dropped. He felt the shock in his arms. He did not fear it. Power felt like a tool. He set the sword down and listened. Quiet. Always quiet. He walked to the river and washed his face. Cold water woke his skin. He watched ants cross a flat stone with crumbs. They did not stop. Work, he said softly. Work kept him upright. Work was a rope in the dark. He carried water to the pot and set it over low fire. He ate a little. He rested a little. Stillness grew heavy. He stood again because moving was easier than thinking. He checked the door bar. He checked the rope locks. He looked again at the notch pole and counted the last ten marks out loud. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. His voice sounded sure now. He went back out and stood at the edge of the clearing. The forest paths were shadows between trees. He thought about them. He did not step into them. Not today. He turned to the practice ring and moved again because movement made sense. Step. Cut. Guard. Step. Cut. Guard. He pushed the pace. The blade hummed. The air snapped. Chips of wood jumped and fell. He stopped while his hands were clean and his breath was even. He wiped the sword on grass and set it within reach. The light thinned. The air cooled. The sky turned from pale to deep. He built the fire a little higher and sat with his back to the door. A first star showed above the pines. He watched it. He let his mind open. A memory rose clear and sharp. Not the sea. Not the coast. Spain. He stood on the stones of the port at dusk. Ropes creaked on tall masts. Gulls cried. Tar and salt hung in the air. Men talked while barrels rolled and crates thumped. A drum of boots down a plank. Laughter. Prayers. A sailor with a scar said the land across the water had gold that lay in rivers like sand. Another said there were kings with roads and walls. Another spat and said the land was empty but for beasts with faces like men. A boy swore he heard of a river wider than the sea. An old man shook his head and said mountains of silver stood past a desert of grass. Two men argued about a city of white stone. A third said there was a coast of red cliffs where birds spoke like people. A voice said there were people with skin the color of copper who could run all day. A voice said there were forests that never ended and fish that jumped into boats. A voice said there were monsters with heads like dogs. A voice said there were fields of yellow grain taller than a man and black earth that never tired. The words were fast and bright and full of hunger. Some men laughed and slapped backs. Some men crossed themselves and looked at the church. The bell rang slow. The sound walked over the water. He saw a priest near the door with a small book and a tired face. He saw mothers hold small children and look at the ship with tight mouths. He saw a young man polish a sword and pretend he did not shake. He stood among them and felt the pull in his chest, the old pull that said go, go, go. The captain came down the dock with a cloak and a hard jaw. He listened to the noise and did not smile. He said in a low voice, no maps. Only wind. Only stories. We sail, we look, we write what we see. We return if God allows. We tell no one we do not trust. The men went quiet for a breath, then the noise rose again. A friend from the yard nudged his shoulder and said glory, Escanor. The word sat hot in his ear. He could still feel it now. Glory. He remembered his own hands then, younger and thin, closing tight on a cheap sword hilt. He remembered the way he looked at the ship as if it were a path made of wood. He remembered a promise he did not speak out loud. Not to be small. Not to be forgotten. To climb. To earn a name. To make his mother hear it in the market and stand taller. He remembered a night before the sail when he stood outside the church door. The candles shone like small stars. The priest spoke about courage and said courage is not loud. Courage is a step taken when no one sees. He had stood there and made a simple vow inside his chest. Work. Endure. Win honor. Do not crawl. Do not bend. He remembered the training yard. Dust. Sweat. The crack of wood on wood. The master's shout. Faster. Again. Hold the line. He remembered the first coin he earned for a small job and how he held it so hard it cut his palm and how he laughed because he did not care. He remembered boys his age dreaming of bright clothes and easy wine. He wanted more. He wanted the drum of marching feet for him. He wanted men to lift their heads when his name was spoken. He wanted banners. He wanted weight. He wanted a story that did not end at a dock. The memory turned and showed him the captain again at the water's edge, speaking to a handful of men in low quick words. We follow the long wind. We turn when the stars tell us. If we see coast we keep wide unless God says otherwise. If we meet people we do not start with iron. We start with open hands. If there is danger we leave. If there is wealth we take proof. We talk little. We write much. He remembered nods and tight mouths. He remembered the way the captain touched the rosary at his belt and then tucked it out of sight. He remembered a thin sailor saying kings will pay for news of new lands, and another answering kings pay only for glory, and both laughing like it was the same thing. He remembered the smell of pitch and the weight of rope in his hands the first time he pulled with the crew. He remembered a word an old soldier whispered to him when the moon rose over the river. Honor is a debt you collect from yourself. He remembered saying quiet to himself, I will collect it. He remembered a night behind a warehouse when he and two others spoke low about the voyage and the risks. One said fame, one said coin, and Escanor had said a single word that surprised even him. Crown. They had laughed. He had not laughed. The memory stayed clear. It did not blur. He could count the cracks in the dock wood. He could see the frayed edge of a sail. He could hear the bell and the gulls and the low murmur from the tavern across the lane. He could feel again the old heat of ambition in his chest, simple and clean. He opened his eyes. The fire before him was small but steady. The forest around him was dark and wide. The star above the pines burned bright. He did not speak big lines. He did not make grand claims. He let the old words from Spain sit in his head like coins in a closed hand. No maps. Only wind. Only stories. Glory. Honor. Crown. He held them there in silence. He gripped the sword and felt the weight and balance. He set it down within easy reach. He lay on the bed with the spear near his hand. He put his palm on his chest and felt the slow strong beat. He said in a low voice that no one else could hear, you are strong, you remember, you can wait. He did not add anything more. The wind touched the hide at the door. The fire dropped to a warm glow. The hole in his chest did not vanish, but it sat beside the old vow like a quiet dog beside a brazier. His eyes closed. The last thing in his mind was not the sea and not the trees, but the dock in Spain, the captain's low voice, the bell, the ropes, the faces of men who believed and men who lied, the word glory in his ear, and the vow he made with no witness: work, endure, win honor.