A full week passed inside the wooden house near the pond.
At first, time was measured by pain.
The first few days were the worst. Even shifting my position sent sharp reminders through my leg and arm.
Vaela came quietly, always at the same times, placing bowls of food beside me without ceremony.
The meals were simple—thick stews, roasted roots, dried meat with unfamiliar seasoning. Filling, but strange. I ate because my body demanded it, not because I enjoyed it.
Most days blurred together.
Eat. Sleep. Wake. Stare.
The tree that grew through the center of the house became my only constant. Its thick roots split the wooden floor, rising upward and breaking through the roof, leaves brushing the air above me. I found myself watching it for long stretches—how it stood unmoving, yet alive, enduring the weight of the structure built around it.
Charlie stayed close. Always nearby. Always silent. Always watching.
By the third day, the pain dulled from sharp to heavy. By the fifth, I could sit up without gritting my teeth. By the sixth, standing no longer felt like tempting fate—just effort. The wounds still ached, but the pain had faded from unbearable to tolerable.
On the seventh day, I felt steady enough to leave.
I opened the wooden door and stepped outside.
Sunlight filtered through the canopy, spilling across wooden walkways and tree-bound homes. The air smelled of smoke, wood, sweat, and something else—life. Not the suffocating stillness of the forest depths, but movement. Purpose.
I walked slowly.
Carefully.
My body was still weak, but it no longer felt fragile. Each step was deliberate, my leg reminding me it wasn't fully healed—but it held.
This was my first real look at the village.
Children sparred with wooden weapons, striking clumsily but with enthusiasm. Hunters sat near sharpened blades, methodically running stone along metal. Women prepared hides and food, their movements efficient and practiced. Warriors returned from the forest with prey slung over their shoulders, sweat streaking their skin.
No chaos. No shouting. No wasted movement.
The village didn't feel alive in the way cities did—it functioned, like a body that knew exactly how to breathe.
Everyone had a role.
Everyone had a purpose.
No one stood around waiting for instructions. Children trained instead of playing aimlessly. Hunters sharpened their weapons with quiet focus. Those who weren't fighting were preparing, repairing, or learning. Even rest looked intentional—as if it, too, was part of survival.
Charlie walked behind me, saying nothing. His footsteps matched my pace without effort, close enough to support me if I faltered, far enough to let me walk on my own. He hadn't changed. Still watchful. Still composed. Still unreadable.
As I observed the village, something heavy and unfamiliar settled in my chest.
This place survived not because of walls or protection—but because everyone here was strong in their own way. Not just in muscle or weapons, but in discipline, awareness, and resolve.
Strength here wasn't inherited.
It wasn't granted by birth or status.
It wasn't something you were given.
It was something you earned—every day, through effort, endurance, and the refusal to be weak.
And for the first time, I understood just how fragile my old life had been.
I had lived safely behind walls built by others, never questioning whether I could survive without them.
Vaela approached from the side, her steps light, controlled. She gestured for me to follow.
As we walked, I broke the silence, keeping my voice low, as if speaking too loudly might disrupt the rhythm of the village.
"How long have your people lived here?"
Vaela didn't slow her pace or turn around. Her steps remained steady, confident.
"Skra-long."
The answer was vague, almost dismissive, as if time itself held little meaning here. I swallowed and tried again.
"And the monsters?" I asked. "Do they ever attack the village?"
"Sometime."
Just one word. No hesitation. No tightening of her posture. It sounded no different from stating the weather.
My fingers curled slightly at my side. "And when they come?"
This time, she paused—only for a fraction of a second—then continued walking.
"Skra-kill," she said. "Or skra-chase."
That was all. There was no pride in her tone. No bravado. And no fear. She wasn't boasting, and she wasn't warning me. She was simply stating a fact, the same way one might say fire burns or water flows downhill.
Monsters weren't disasters here. They were obstacles.
I felt a quiet chill creep up my spine.
We continued forward, the path bending gently through the trees, the outline of Elder Thryssa's home coming into view ahead. The village carried on around us, unbothered—because for them, survival wasn't hope or luck. It was routine.
Villagers glanced at me as we passed—not hostile, not welcoming. Curious. Measuring. I felt like something unfamiliar being assessed for worth.
Charlie remained silent, his expression unreadable.
Elder Thryssa was already waiting when we arrived.
The moment I stepped inside, I felt it—her attention settling on me like a quiet weight. Her eyes moved with deliberate precision, not missing a single detail. She studied my stance, the way I placed my feet, the slight stiffness in my step, the way I shifted my weight to favor one leg over the other. Her gaze lingered briefly on the bandages beneath my clothes, on the faint tension I still carried when I moved.
She noticed everything.
"You have changed," she said at last, her voice calm and steady. "Even in a week."
I hesitated, unsure what to say. Had I? I didn't feel changed—only tired, sore, and uncertain.
She didn't wait for a response.
"The world does not give people what they want," Elder Thryssa continued, her tone even, almost conversational.
The words struck deeper than I expected.
"Desire means nothing without strength," she said. "Whatever you wish to become. Whatever future you seek—"
Her eyes met mine.
"—you cannot reach it unless you grow stronger."
There was no omen in her voice. No mystic flourish. No hint of prophecy or fate.
Just truth, spoken plainly.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. When I spoke, I didn't try to hide it.
"I'm weak."
The admission surprised me—not because it was false, but because it came so easily. No resistance. No excuses.
"I survived because others protected me," I went on, my voice steady despite the tightness in my chest. Images flashed through my mind—Charlie standing between me and danger, shields rising when I didn't understand how, others bleeding so I could keep breathing.
"If I had been alone…" I exhaled slowly. "I would be dead."
For a moment, the room was silent.
Then I lifted my gaze and met hers fully.
"What path lies before me now?"
Elder Thryssa didn't look away.
She held my gaze steadily, as if weighing not just my words, but the silence behind them—the hesitation I didn't have, the doubts I hadn't voiced.
"You have a choice," she said at last.
Her voice was calm, but there was no softness in it. No reassurance. Just certainty.
"Once you are fully healed, you may leave this village," she continued. "You are not a prisoner here."
Then she paused, letting the words settle before continuing.
"Or you may stay—and earn strength here."
Something in her tone shifted. Not louder. Not harsher. Just firmer, like stone settling into place.
"This village will not coddle you," Elder Thryssa said. "No one will protect you simply because you are weak. Strength here is paid for with effort. With discipline. With pain."
I felt it then—the weight of the choice.
Leaving meant returning to a world I barely understood anymore. A world where danger had already swallowed everything I cared about.
Staying meant suffering. Training. Failure. Being pushed beyond limits I didn't yet know existed.
I didn't hesitate.
"I'll stay," I said.
The words left my mouth cleanly, without tremor—spoken as if the decision had already been made long before this moment. There was no fire in them. No bravado. Just something steady and immovable.
Resolve.
Beside me, Charlie stood in silence.
His expression didn't change—not even slightly. No approval. No disapproval. No surprise.
Just a neutral, unreadable calm.
And for the first time since entering the forest, I knew one thing with certainty.
I had taken my first real step forward.
Elder Thryssa nodded once, as though she had been expecting my answer all along. There was no surprise in her expression—only quiet acknowledgment.
She turned to Vaela.
"Take him to Rokar."
Vaela straightened at once, posture snapping sharp and disciplined.
"He will not be able to use abilities yet," Elder Thryssa continued evenly. "Power without a foundation only destroys its wielder. His body must be tempered first—physical strength before anything else."
Vaela turned and motioned for me to follow.
We walked away from Elder Thryssa's home, toward a part of the village where the air itself seemed heavier. With every step, the sounds grew louder—low grunts of exertion, the dull thud of fists and bodies colliding, sharp breaths dragged from burning lungs. Sweat hung in the air, thick and acrid, mixed with dust and effort.
I slowed instinctively.
The training grounds opened before us.
Warriors clashed again and again, wooden weapons cracking against each other, bare fists striking flesh. Some were bruised. Some were bleeding. None of them stopped. When one fell, they pushed themselves back up and continued, muscles trembling, teeth clenched, eyes hard with refusal.
This wasn't practice.
It was endurance.
It was survival.
And then I saw him.
Rokar stood at the edge of the grounds, massive arms crossed over his tattooed chest. He wasn't shouting. He wasn't moving. He simply watched—eyes sharp, posture relaxed, as if every strike, every stumble, every breathless struggle was being weighed and measured.
When his gaze shifted, it landed on me.
Heavy. Assessing.
I clenched my fists without realizing it.
If I wanted to leave this forest—if I ever meant to face the world beyond it again— then I had to endure this place first.
This forest wasn't my end.
It was the beginning of my strength.