Kael's POV
Six months passed in a blur of pain, progress, and few victories.
I woke up at dawn every day, ran to training ground on legs that never ceased to ache and stretched my body to its limit. Garrick was never kind to me, if anything, he seemed to find new ways to torment me in specific. While other students were doing standard drills, I was made to bear weights, to dash through barriers, endurance exercises that left me gasping on the ground.
"Screens provide individuals with shortcuts," he had once told me, standing over me as I grunted my way through my hundredth push-up. "They strengthen the body naturally, make skills more accessible, make things improve faster. You don't have shortcuts. So you'll use the long path, and you'll follow it until your feet are bleeding."
They did bleed. Regularly.
But something was shifting. Gradually, almost unnoticeably at first, then more and more noticeably, my body was changing. Muscles were growing where there hadn't been any before. My stamina was increasing. The practice sword that once had been impossible to lift now felt within my capability. I still lost the majority of my sparring matches, but the margins were decreasing.
My father noticed the changes as well. He'd had consistent work fixing weapons and equipment for a series of merchants and guard firms, and though we still shared the same small boarding house room, we no longer starved. He watched me drilling footwork in our cramped space with a prideful and wistful expression.
"You're growing up too fast," he told me one evening.
"I have to," I said, assuming a sword stance Garrick had drilled into me. "Every day I'm weak is a day I'm vulnerable."
"You're eight years old, Kael. You should be playing, being friends, being a child."
"Children with Scripts can play. I can't."
The expression on his face caused me to regret the words, but they were true. I'd witnessed what was done to Errors who couldn't defend themselves. The frontier was lawless, but that did not make it any less dangerous. Only power commanded respect here.
Aldric was my best, and only friend for those months. Even though he was destined for greatness, he did treat me like a peer. We trained with each other whenever Garrick paired us, pushed each other to excel, and occasionally could pilfer minutes that felt almost normal.
"Talk about your mother," I asked him once, catching my breath between training.
His expression turned distant. "She died when I was five. Complications of delivery with my little sister. The sister died too." He picked at a callus on his palm. "My Script guaranteed me I'd be the Ultimate Hero, but it never guaranteed I'd save every person I cared about. That's the cruel thing about fate, it tells you how the big story ends, but it never guides you through the small tragedies on the way."
I did not know what to say to that. My own mother had passed away when she gave birth to me, so we both understood that particular pain.
"Maybe that's why we get along," I said slowly. "We both understand the loss of something we never had to begin with."
He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "Maybe."
Not everyone was as accepting as Aldric. A boy named Marcus, two years older than me and blessed with the Script of the Iron Fist, appeared to take it personally that I was alive. He made practice more challenging by going out of his way to strike me too hard during sparring, muttering behind my back that I was cursed and would bring disaster to anyone who became friends with me.
"Mistakes don't belong here," he asserted one day, standing to ensure that everyone would hear him. "They're aberrations. The gods themselves said so."
I'd learned to block such statements out, but today, exhausted and ill-tempered after a particularly savage bout with Garrick, something snapped.
"Then beat me," I asserted, my words cutting through the din. "Prove it. If I'm so worthless a mistake, it should be simple enough to defeat me."
Marcus grinned, hard and victorious. "Gladly."
Garrick, collaborating with another student, looked at us. "A challenge? Fine. But we do it properly. Three rounds, full-contact sparring with wooden swords. The first one to quit or get knocked out of their sword loses." His face was scarred, unreadable. "And Kael, if you lose horribly, I'm pulling you out of advanced drills for a month.
Do you understand?"
The stakes were high, but I nodded. I'd only been in advanced drills for two weeks, and losing that progress would be a disaster. But giving in now would be worse.
We stood facing each other in the middle of the yard, each student drawing a circle around us. Marcus had four more years of training on me, his Script-added power, and likely fifteen pounds of muscle over me. The odds weren't against me, they were ridiculous.
Aldric's eye flicked out of the crowd and nodded at me encouragingly.
"Start," Garrick instructed.
Marcus rushed at me like a landslide, pure strength and ferocity. His first punch would have broken my ribs if it had connected, but six months of merciless practice had taught me one vital skill: how to survive. I sidestepped left, allowing his momentum to pass by.
He recovered, striking again. I parried, and the jolt shot up my arms. He was incredibly powerful.
"Stay and die, Mistake!" Marcus laughed, testing his luck.
But I wasn't trying to match his strength. I couldn't. I focused instead on what Garrick had taught me, parsimony of motion, energy conservation, turning an opponent's energy back against them.
Marcus's next strike was high. I moved under it and swept at the lead leg. He stumbled, off balance, and I struck him hard to the ribs.
First point to me.
His expression altered from sadistic enjoyment to genuine anger. "You'll pay for that."
The second point was brutal. Marcus abandoned technique for raw power, driving at my defense until my arms went numb. I gave way gradually, awaiting an opening that never came. He took me with a hit to the shoulder that all but disarmed me.
Second point to him.
We were even. The next round would decide the victor.
I was exhausted. My arms shook. My breathing was in croupy gasps. Marcus was tired too, but not anywhere near as much as I was. If this became a test of endurance of who could go longer, I was done.
I'd have to end it quick then.
"Final round," Garrick announced. "Begin."
This time, I attacked first. Marcus, expecting me to defend myself, was caught off guard. I launched forward with all my might, sending him back, not giving him space to unleash his superior strength.
He parried my attack, but just barely. I could see confusion in his eyes, where had that aggression come from?
Then I did it. I feinted high, and when he raised his guard, I dropped low and swept his legs out from under him. He crashed to the ground, and before he could push himself up, I had my practice sword against his throat.
"Yield," I instructed him, trying to keep my voice steady despite my thudding heart.
For a moment, I believed he'd refuse. Believed he'd do something stupid that would cause Garrick to have to intervene. But finally, grudgingly, he nodded.
"I yield."
The training yard exploded into noise, some cheering, some jeering, everyone shocked. I'd won. Against all odds, against someone stronger, bigger, and Script-favored, I'd won.
Garrick's voice cut through the chaos. "Match to Kael. Everybody back to drills. Show's over."
As the crowd dispersed, Aldric appeared at my side with a huge grin. "That was incredible! The way you took the fight to him like that at the end…"
"I was fortunate," I said, but couldn't help but smile myself.
"Luck enters battle," Garrick added, approaching us. His own face still wasn't grinning, but I sensed a touch of approval in his tone. "Kael, come with me."
I followed him to the edge of the yard, beyond hearing of the other students. He faced me with that intimidating seriousness that never faltered.
"You won because you fought smart, not strong. That's fine. But don't get a big head." He paused. "You're catching up faster than I expected. Six months ago, you couldn't even handle a sword. Now you're on the same level as students who have trained for years."
"Is it because I work harder?"
"Partly. But also because you have no Script holding you back." I gazed at him in confusion, and he explained. "Scripts drive people to their destiny, but they also limit them. A person with the Script of the Shield will forever be more accomplished in defense than in offense, no matter how hard they train. Their fate has made their specialty. You have no such limitations. You can develop as your work ethic commands."
I had never thought about keeping my Error nature as an advantage before. It was a strange idea, almost blasphemous.
"Does that mean I could actually become strong? Really strong?"
"It's going to mean you'll have to work three times harder for every gain, but yes, if you live long enough, you might overtake people whose Scripts would make them better." Garrick's face with its scars showed something that might have been respect. "The question is whether or not you have the will to pay the price."
I thought of the Ceremony, my father's sacrifices, all the time that I'd been called worthless or cursed or wrong.
"I'll pay it," I said to him. "Whatever it is."
Garrick nodded slowly. "We'll see. Now get back to training. You've won one bout, but you're still behind the rest of the group by years."
I walked back to the yard, and I could sense something within me shifting. Not quite confident, I wasn't that fool. But resolve, hard and bright as steel melted in a fire.
I would show Kael Ardent that she belonged in this world. Not by accepting the fate that was handed to me, but by creating my own value through sheer, bloody-minded obstinacy.
And if the world still rejected me after that? Then I'd make the world see it differently.
Or die trying.