I was lying on the ground, staring at the sky.
My chest rose unevenly. My arms refused to respond. Clouds drifted above me, slow and uncaring.
Only then did I understand—
This wasn't chaos.
This was designed.
Duracal never gave me days off.
What he gave me were breaks.
Short pauses between work. Just enough time to breathe. Just enough time to suffer differently.
The first time it happened, Rathen appeared.
Duracal waved a hand.
"Break. Thirty minutes."
Rathen said nothing. He tossed me a wooden sword.
"Pick it up."
No instructions. No restraint.
We sparred.
I was struck again and again—pressed until my footing collapsed, until my arms shook too badly to lift the blade.
The moment my body started adapting, Duracal called out.
"Back to work."
No rest. Straight to the forge. Heat. Hauling iron. Maintaining the fire.
That night, I studied. Trained quietly. Slept when my body finally failed.
The next time Duracal called a break, Siena was waiting.
She didn't waste words.
She corrected my grip before I moved.
"Wrong."
She adjusted my stance. My distance. The angle of my shoulders.
Then she stepped back.
"Attack."
Every mistake was punished—then corrected. Over and over. Grip. Thrust. Recovery.
When Duracal appeared, she didn't stop.
"He needs repetition," she said.
Duracal nodded.
The break ended with my arms trembling, forced through a hundred spear motions before returning to work.
Bharam's training came during longer pauses—when Duracal needed the forge to cool.
He took me beyond the village, sometimes blindfolded.
"Find your way back."
I learned to listen. To smell. To feel the slope of the ground.
Other times, he handed me a bow.
"Control," he said. "Too little, it falls. Too much, it breaks."
Each shot was followed by work. No separation. No recovery.
The pattern continued.
Sword during one break.
Spear during the next.
Archery and terrain when time allowed.
Duracal never reduced my workload. He increased it—adding heat control, tool handling, hammer selection while iron glowed white-hot.
If I failed, he didn't shout.
He forgot things.
And my work doubled.
This routine lasted more than two months.
Slow changes appeared.
I still took hits—but fewer.
My footing held longer.
I no longer walked in the wrong direction immediately when blindfolded.
My arrows struck wood instead of dirt.
Duracal noticed.
One morning, his eyes lingered on my arms—thicker now, hardened by repetition.
"It's time," he said.
Tomorrow.
That night, sleep never came.
At dawn, I worked faster than ever, then stood waiting.
Duracal handed me a cloth-wrapped bundle.
Forging tools.
Mine.
"These are our lifeline," he said quietly. "And our gods. Respect them. They return that respect—through the weapons you make."
He placed a glowing iron ingot on the anvil.
"Strike."
I raised the hammer.
And brought it down.