Pain came first.
Not the sharp, alarming kind that made you want to cry out, but the dull, persistent ache that settled into my limbs and refused to leave. It clung to my arms when I tried to lift them, to my legs when I stood up from bed, to my back when I straightened my posture just a little too much.
I learned quickly that it wasn't my enemy.
"It means it's working," Rosevelt said, crouching beside me as I sat on the dirt of the training yard, chest rising and falling far faster than it should have.
He had a way of speaking that made everything sound simple, even when it clearly wasn't.
"My muscles feel like they're tearing," I muttered.
"They are," he replied easily. "Just a little."
I stared at him.
He grinned. "That's how they learn."
The training yard of the Ayer estate was wide and open, bordered by stone walls and watched over by banners that fluttered lazily in the wind. Soldiers trained here daily, their movements practiced and disciplined, but when I was brought out each morning, the yard was cleared.
Not because I was special.
Because Patrick had ordered it.
On the first day, Roosevelt had asked me a question.
"What weapon do you want to learn?"
I hadn't hesitated.
"A greatsword."
He blinked, then laughed. "You sure about that?"
Patrick stood a short distance away, arms crossed, silent. Melinda wasn't thereshe trusted him with this.
"I'm sure," I said.
Only later did I realize that I hadn't truly thought about it. I had chosen the same weapon my father used without even questioning why. I told myself it was my decision, that I was making my own choices now.
Maybe I was.
Or maybe I was still learning how not to seek approval.
Regardless, Roosevelt didn't argue. He handed me a wooden sword, one sized for my body, light enough that I could hold it without tipping forward.
"This," he said, tapping the ground with it, "is more than enough for now."
The first days weren't about fighting.
They were about standing.
Posture.
Balance.
Breathing.
"Again," Roosevelt said as I struggled to keep my back straight.
My legs trembled.
Again.
Sweat dripped into my eyes. My arms felt heavy, unresponsive. Each time I corrected my stance, something else seemed to fall out of alignment.
"Why do we keep doing this?" I asked, frustration creeping into my voice.
"So your body remembers," he replied. "Not your head."
I didn't like that answer.
But I kept going.
By the third day, the pain changed.
It spread deeper, into places I hadn't known could ache. Yet beneath it was something else… warmth, strength slowly settling in. My body wasn't breaking.
It was adapting.
Every time I pushed myself past what felt comfortable, something inside me adjusted. Muscles learned what was being asked of them. Bones bore weight more naturally. Balance came a little easier.
Evolution through effort.
That idea stayed with me.
During a short break, Roosevelt leaned against a wooden post, watching me stretch awkwardly.
"You know," he said casually, "your father didn't get where he is by skipping steps."
I looked up. "Where is he, exactly?"
Roosevelt smirked. "Proficient stage of the Profound Realm."
I frowned. "And me?"
"You?" He tilted his head. "You're not even third level."
I muttered under my breath, "Why are you boasting about achievements that aren't even yours?"
He laughed loud enough for the nearby soldiers to glance over. "Good. That means you're still capable of doing some pushups, back to training."
Magic training was… different.
There was no training yard for it. No shouting. No wooden swords striking dirt.
Instead, I sat.
Sometimes in the library. Sometimes in the garden. Sometimes in a quiet room with the windows open, letting the wind pass freely.
Mana felt warm and heavy inside me now, like a second heartbeat. Calling it was easy… too easy. It responded readily, eager to move, eager to change.
Controlling it was another matter.
Fire came first.
It made sense to me. Fire was energy released, matter reacting violently with air. I didn't need to summon flames. I only needed to guide the mana into behaving like it wanted to burn.
A faint warmth pooled in my palm.
Then it flared.
Too fast.
I pulled back instinctively, the mana dispersing into the air. No flame, just heat.
Water was calmer. It flowed more naturally, following intent rather than force. I could feel it gathering, heavy and cool, but shaping it beyond that remained difficult.
The wind… was frustrating.
I couldn't see it. I couldn't grasp it properly. I knew it was movement, pressure, imbalance, but translating that understanding into mana felt like trying to hold something that refused to exist.
Light was the worst.
It didn't respond.
No matter how I focused, no matter how carefully I guided my intent, light mana slipped away as if it didn't recognize me yet.
Melinda watched quietly from a distance when she could, never interrupting. She didn't correct me unless I was about to hurt myself.
Magic, she said once, bending to sit beside me, "is not conquered. It's convinced."
That stayed with me.
Between training sessions, my studies continued.
Or rather, they were condensed.
I had asked Wineston for it myself.
"I don't need to attend every lesson," I told him. "I know what I'll be learning. Just give me the material."
He had looked skeptical. Then curious.
Then impressed.
So now, he summarized. History, mathematics, language, geography, all delivered in brief, structured overviews. I studied alone and then took the test later.
Only etiquette remained mandatory.
Some things, Wineston said firmly, could not be rushed.
Days passed like this.
Sword.
Magic.
Study.
Sleep.
Exhaustion became familiar. Not unpleasant. Earned.
One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the training yard in amber light, I collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving.
Roosevelt sat beside me, offering a canteen. "You did well today."
I drank, then groaned. "I can't feel my arms."
"That means they'll feel stronger tomorrow."
I stared up at the sky. "Does it ever get easier?"
He shrugged. "No. You get better at enduring it."
I laughed softly. He did too.
For the first time since beginning all of this, the pain didn't feel like something I was enduring alone.
And that, somehow, made all the difference.