I followed Vaela toward Rokar, my steps careful as my still-healing body protested with every movement. As we walked, my eyes drifted over the space around us, taking everything in—the worn earth beneath our feet, the scattered weapons, the marks left behind by countless clashes.
By the time we reached him, I realized the truth.
The training grounds were nothing like I had expected.
There were no marked arenas. No neat lines. No clear boundaries. Just a wide clearing of beaten earth, cracked and uneven, as if the ground itself had been punished repeatedly. Footprints overlapped one another in every direction—some deep, some shallow. Dark stains marked certain patches, old and new, never fully erased.
Bodies moved everywhere.
Warriors trained in pairs, fists colliding with dull thuds. Others practiced strikes alone, muscles tightening and releasing in relentless rhythm.
Sweat dripped freely. Grunts filled the air.
Occasionally, someone was thrown to the ground—only to rise again moments later.
No one complained.
No one stopped.
I felt small the moment I stepped into the clearing.
Vaela stopped a few steps in front of Rokar and straightened, her posture sharp and disciplined.
She spoke first, her voice low and clipped, carrying the rough cadence of their tongue.
"Rokar, skra-Elder Thryssa say...this one train."
Rokar's eyes shifted to her. He didn't answer immediately.
She waited for his response without impatience or doubt, her posture straight and unyielding.
Rokar exhaled through his nose—a short, restrained breath.
"Graah…" he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Then he nodded once.
"Skra-Elder Thryssa word heavy."
His gaze settled fully on me after that.
The moment Elder Thryssa's name was spoken, the decision had already been made.
He didn't speak at first.
He looked me over slowly, deliberately—starting from my feet, lingering on the way my weight favored one leg, then moving up to my bandaged arm. When his eyes settled on the white cloth wrapped tightly around my forearm… his expression shifted.
Just for a heartbeat, a faint twitch crossed his jaw.
It was subtle, but I saw it.
Those bandages were his work.
The spear. The pain. The blood.
His gaze moved next to my leg, where the cloth was thicker, darker at the edges.
"Skra-wound," he said at last, voice low. "Still hurt?"
The question caught me off guard.
I hesitated, then nodded. "It's… better than before."
He grunted softly, neither approving nor apologetic.
"Skra-good," he muttered.
His eyes returned to my face—sharp, unreadable.
He said nothing more at first, only continued to study me. My stance. My breathing. The way I kept my shoulders stiff, as if bracing for another blow. Not cruel. Not mocking. Judging.
Seconds passed.
The silence stretched uncomfortably, thick enough that I could hear my own pulse.
Then Rokar spoke again.
"Skra… Elder word."
He stepped closer, boots sinking into the dirt of the training ground.
"Skra-train you," he said flatly. "Because Elder say."
Another step.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Skra-not think kindness."
A knot tightened in my chest.
"No mercy," Rokar continued. "No easy. No bend rule."
He gestured broadly at the grounds around us—the warriors still clashing in the distance, bodies colliding again and again, sweat and grit flying with every impact.
"Skra-train like all."
Then his gaze locked onto mine, heavy and unyielding.
"Or skra-leave."
There was no outright threat in his voice—
but it still pressed down on me, heavy and unmistakable.
Not the kind meant to scare…
the kind that made it clear he wouldn't hesitate if I failed.
"Skra-weak," he added, just as plainly.
The words hit harder than I expected.
"Skra-weakness not shame," he continued.
"Skra-pretend you not weak—that is."
I clenched my jaw but didn't look away.
Even though I didn't understand every word he spoke, I understood enough.
"If you skra-not endure training," Rokar said, "you skra-go back. Skra-no one stop."
He turned slightly and pointed to a flat stone near the edge of the clearing.
"Skra-rules simple," he said. "No weapons. Body only."
There was no explanation beyond that—no clarification, no reassurance. Just a statement, as final as a verdict.
Then, without warning, he kicked a large, uneven stone toward me. It scraped across the dirt before stopping at my feet with a dull, bone-rattling thud.
"Skra-lift," Rokar ordered. "Skra-hold. Low stance."
I stared at the stone for a heartbeat. It looked deceptively ordinary—jagged, rough, stained with dirt and moss. But even without touching it, I could tell it was heavy.
I hesitated for half a second.
Then I bent down and wrapped my arms around it.
The moment I tried to lift, my body protested violently. The stone didn't budge at first. I gritted my teeth, adjusted my grip, and forced my legs to work together. Slowly—inch by inch—it came off the ground.
My arms shook immediately.
"Lower," Rokar snapped.
I bent my knees as instructed, dropping into a low stance. As I bent lower to maintain the stance, pain flared sharply through my body.
Not the dull ache I'd grown used to over the past days—but a sudden, vicious reminder.
My healing wounds screamed.
The leg that had been pierced burned as if the spear were still lodged inside it, the muscles around the injury tightening and spasming under the strain. My arm throbbed next, a deep, pulsing pain that traveled up to my shoulder as the weight dragged downward.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
My knees trembled, balance wavering as the pain threatened to fold me in half. For a moment, spots danced at the edge of my vision, and instinct screamed at me to drop the stone—to stop.
But Rokar didn't say a word.
That silence pressed harder than any shout.
I clenched my jaw and forced myself lower, teeth grinding as sweat ran down my temple. The wounds protested violently, heat and pressure building until it felt like my body was tearing itself apart from the inside.
This wasn't healed pain.
This was pain reminding me I was still weak.
My arms shook. My legs burned. My breath came out ragged and uneven.
Still, I held the stone.
Because dropping it now would mean admitting that even this— just standing, just enduring—
was beyond me.
Rokar didn't speak.
Seconds stretched.
My arms began to shake violently.
"Hold," Rokar said calmly.
Pain crawled upward from my legs, settling deep into my joints. My back screamed. My lungs burned.
I shifted my weight slightly.
"Lower," he said.
My knees buckled.
I collapsed.
The stone slammed into the ground as I fell forward, catching myself with my hands. The impact sent a sharp jolt through my arm, pain flaring hot and sudden.
No one laughed.
No one stepped forward to help.
Around me, the training ground carried on as if I didn't exist—grunts, impacts, bodies pushing past limits.
And Rokar…
He didn't move an inch.
I lay there for a moment, chest heaving, humiliation burning hotter than the pain.
I could stop.
No one would stop me from leaving but I pushed myself up.
Slowly. Painfully.
My arms trembled as I grabbed the stone again. My legs screamed as I forced myself back into position.
This time, it was worse.
"Hold," Rokar said again.
My vision blurred slightly. Sweat dripped from my chin into the dirt. My teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached.
I didn't last long.
But I didn't drop it immediately either.
I forced myself to hold on—one breath longer, then another—every second stretching unbearably as my legs trembled and my healing wounds burned like fire.
When my strength finally gave out, it happened all at once.
The stone slipped from my grasp and my body collapsed with it, slamming into the ground harder than before. The impact knocked the air from my lungs, leaving me sprawled there, chest heaving, vision swimming.
Footsteps approached.
Rokar stepped into my field of view.
He looked down at me for a long moment—silent, unreadable. No mockery. No impatience. Just assessment.
Then—just barely—he nodded.
Not approval.
Acceptance.
"Again," he said.
---
The training ended with me sprawled on the ground, muscles screaming, body shaking uncontrollably. Every inch of me ached, the pain deep and all-consuming, as if my body had been torn apart and put back together wrong. My bandages were soaked through with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to my skin.
As I stared up, the sky above the clearing had already surrendered to night.
The sun was gone.
Night had crept in without me noticing, shadows stretching long between the trees as the first stars flickered faintly overhead. The air was cooler now, brushing against my overheated skin, but it did nothing to ease the burning in my muscles.
The training grounds were empty.
Everyone else had already left—no clashing bodies, no voices, no movement. Just me, the trampled earth, and the quiet weight of the forest settling back into place.
I lay there, barely able to move.
But I was still breathing.
Rokar glanced down at me one last time.
"Skra-go. Rest. Skra-come morning," he said gruffly.
With that, he turned away without another word, his broad figure disappearing into the darkness of the village as if the training—and my collapse—were already behind him.
A moment later, Charlie appeared at my side. He crouched slightly and slid an arm beneath my shoulder, steady but careful.
"You worked hard today, Young Master," he said quietly. "You should rest now."
I nodded.
With Charlie's support, I forced myself upright.
Every movement sent dull waves of pain through my muscles, my legs trembling as if they might give out again at any moment. Still, I took one step. Then another.
Slowly, painfully, we made our way back toward the house, the night air cool against my sweat-soaked skin.
Behind us, the training ground lay silent.