281 AC — Age 9
Endurance didn't feel like anything.
That was the problem.
Strength announced itself with pain. Failure did too. Even overconfidence had a sharp edge to it, something you could feel when it cut you. Endurance was quieter. It crept in sideways, disguised as routine, hiding in tasks that were too dull to respect and too long to ignore.
At nine, most of what I did was boring on purpose.
Maege didn't frame it that way, of course. She never said this is meant to wear you down or this is to see whether you'll quit. She simply assigned things that took time and didn't stop when they became unpleasant.
"Go with Harlon," she said one morning, glancing up from the table long enough to make sure I was listening. "You'll walk the western circuit. Twice."
"Twice?" I asked.
"Yes."
That was the whole explanation.
The western circuit was longer than the inner one and less interesting than the lower path. It looped past storage sheds, old sections of wall that hadn't been rebuilt because they didn't need to be, and stretches of bare stone where the wind came straight off the sea without anything to soften it.
It existed so people wouldn't forget those places existed.
Harlon was already waiting by the door when I finished tying my boots. He looked the same as always—calm, unhurried, prepared for a day that would not surprise him.
We started walking.
The first circuit passed easily enough. My legs warmed. My breathing settled. The aches I'd learned to expect stayed manageable, distant enough to ignore. We didn't speak much. There was nothing to say that hadn't already been said on previous walks.
I watched the wall.
I watched the ground.
I watched the way Harlon's pace never changed, even when the wind shifted and pressed harder against us.
When we finished the loop and returned to the keep gate, I slowed automatically.
Harlon didn't.
He turned and started again.
That was when I understood that the first circuit hadn't been the point.
The second time around, the wind picked up. It wasn't strong enough to be dangerous, just persistent, the kind that leaned against you and waited. My legs started to feel heavy. Not painful. Just tired in a way that didn't go away when I adjusted my stride.
I wanted to speed up and get it over with.
I didn't.
That felt important.
Halfway through, we stopped near a stretch of wall where the stone had been patched years ago and never fully blended back into the rest. The repairs were solid, but obvious if you knew what to look for.
"Sit," Harlon said.
I did, lowering myself onto the cold stone and flexing my feet to keep them from stiffening.
We stayed there longer than was comfortable.
The wind pulled at my cloak. My legs cooled. When I stood again, the heaviness doubled, muscles protesting the sudden change.
I didn't comment.
Neither did Harlon.
By the time we finished the second circuit, my legs were shaking in a way that felt disproportionate to what we'd actually done. No running. No lifting. No strain that would have impressed anyone.
Just walking.
Just time.
Inside the keep, Maege didn't ask how it went.
She saw it instead.
"You'll walk again tomorrow," she said after a moment, eyes flicking to the way I shifted my weight without meaning to.
"Yes."
She nodded and returned to her work.
That afternoon, I was given a bucket.
Not a heavy one. Not full. Just enough water that it sloshed if I wasn't careful.
"From the well to the kitchens," Maege said. "And back."
I did it once.
Then again.
By the third trip, my arms burned more than they had during training. The bucket wasn't heavy enough to force me to stop. It was heavy enough that I couldn't forget it.
I focused on not spilling.
Not on being fast.
Not on finishing.
Just on each step staying where it belonged.
Alysane cried while I was on my fourth trip.
The sound carried through the keep immediately, thin and insistent. A servant redirected without breaking stride. Someone else set down what they were doing and moved toward the nursery.
I kept walking.
That was harder than it should have been.
By evening, my hands were raw and my shoulders ached in a way that felt deep rather than sharp. I sat near the hearth with Dacey pressed against my side, half-asleep and warm.
"You're slow today," she observed.
"I walked a lot," I replied.
"That's dumb," she said, and yawned.
"Yes," I agreed.
The next day, Maege changed nothing.
Same circuit. Same pace. Same bucket.
The day after that, the same again.
By the fourth day, the boredom was worse than the exhaustion. There was nothing new to notice. No mistake to correct. No failure dramatic enough to learn from.
I hated that.
On the fifth day, I nearly tripped near the well, foot catching on uneven stone. I recovered quickly enough that nothing spilled.
No one commented.
That bothered me more than if they had.
That evening, I finally asked.
"Why?" I said, standing near Maege's chair while she read through a stack of reports.
She didn't look up. "Why what?"
"This," I said. "Walking. Buckets. Again."
She turned a page before answering. "Because you don't stop when you're tired."
"I don't stop when I'm bored either," I said.
"That's the same thing," she replied.
I frowned. "It doesn't feel the same."
"No," she agreed. "Fatigue announces itself. Boredom whispers."
She looked up then, studying me carefully. "Which one do you think gets people killed more often?"
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
The routine continued.
Some days, Harlon changed the route slightly. Other days, he didn't. The bucket was sometimes fuller. Sometimes lighter. The differences were small enough that they almost didn't matter.
Almost.
By the end of the month, my legs no longer shook at the end of the circuit. My hands didn't ache the same way after carrying water. The boredom remained, but it didn't grate as sharply.
That was when Maege changed things.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
One afternoon, instead of sending me back immediately after the circuit, she had me sit near the wall and wait.
For how long, she didn't say.
I waited.
The sun shifted. The wind eased. Then returned.
I stayed where I was.
When she finally returned, she didn't say anything. She simply gestured toward the keep.
That was the end of it.
That night, as I lay in bed, I realized something unsettling.
I couldn't tell you exactly when my endurance had improved.
There had been no moment where it clicked into place. No single day where the circuit felt easy or the bucket felt light.
It had happened somewhere in the middle.
Quietly.
Without asking permission.