I woke up sore.
Not the dramatic kind of sore.
The honest kind.
The kind where every muscle sends you a quiet reminder that yesterday existed.
I rolled onto my side, stared at the ground, and groaned.
"…I survived a monster," I muttered. "And lost to sleeping."
"Get up."
Porlyusica's voice came from somewhere behind me.
I didn't open my eyes. "Five more minutes."
"No."
"…Three?"
She kicked dirt near my head. Not at me. Just close enough to be annoying.
I sighed and pushed myself upright.
My body protested, then settled. That faint vibration I'd started noticing more and more didn't push me forward—it just kept everything from falling apart. Like invisible tape holding joints and muscles in place.
Porlyusica watched me closely.
Not worried.
Not impressed.
Just… evaluating.
"You're slower this morning," she said.
"Emotionally or physically?"
"Yes."
⸻
Books Before Breakfast
She didn't start with training.
That surprised me.
Instead, she dropped her pack beside a fallen log and opened it.
Books spilled out.
Not a few.
A lot.
Hardcovers. Softcovers. Some bound in leather, some wrapped in cloth. Pages worn, corners bent, notes scribbled in margins.
My eyes widened.
"…You were carrying all that while running?"
"Yes."
"…I rescind every complaint I have ever made about my legs."
She ignored me and sorted them into small stacks.
"Sit."
I obeyed.
"These," she said, tapping the first pile, "are anatomy. Not healing. Structure."
She moved to the second. "These are plants. Toxic, medicinal, useless, and 'will kill you if you confuse them.'"
Third pile. Thinner. Older.
"And these," she said, "are about endurance. Recovery. What happens when a body keeps going when it shouldn't."
I swallowed.
"…Which one do I start with?"
She handed me one from the first stack.
"You run," she said. "So you learn what you're running with."
The book was heavy. Real heavy.
I opened it and immediately regretted it.
"…There are drawings."
"Yes."
"…Of everything."
"Yes."
"…Why does this page feel like it's judging me?"
"Because it's accurate."
I snorted despite myself and started reading.
⸻
Learning Hurts (But Less Than Dying)
We didn't stay in one place.
That was the pattern I was starting to notice.
Read. Walk. Stop. Read again. Try something. Fail quietly.
Porlyusica corrected me without raising her voice.
"Wrong grip."
"Your footing's sloppy."
"You're compensating with your left leg."
I adjusted every time.
Not because she demanded it.
Because she remembered everything.
At one point, while stretching near a stream, my calf twitched sharply.
I hissed.
She looked over. "Don't fight it."
"…I wasn't."
"You were."
I exhaled slowly and let the tension ease instead of forcing it down.
The ache faded faster than it should have.
I blinked.
"…Huh."
She noticed.
Didn't comment.
Just handed me another book later and said, "Read page forty-three."
I did.
It described muscle micro-strain and involuntary vibration as a stabilizing response.
I looked up slowly.
"…Is my body cheating?"
"No," she replied. "It's adapting."
That sounded… better.
⸻
Why You Run
Later, as the sun dipped and we made camp again, she finally asked it.
"Why do you always run first?"
I poked at the fire with a stick. "Because dying would interrupt my schedule."
She didn't laugh.
I sighed. "Because… I don't want to win fights. I want to come back from them."
She studied me in silence.
"…Most people your age want to hit things," she said.
"I hit things," I replied. "Just… emotionally. Later. In my head."
That earned me a snort.
She tossed me a small notebook.
"This is yours," she said. "Write. Every day."
I caught it. "About what?"
"Your body. Your mistakes. What scared you."
"…Sounds fun."
"It keeps people alive."
I opened it and scribbled immediately.
Day 11.
Ran from something with too many teeth. Again.
Did not die. Still counts as success.
Body does weird helpful things under pressure. Need to understand that before it understands me.
Note: Porlyusica carries more books than common sense. Respect.
I closed it and smiled faintly.
⸻
Not a Child's Training
Before sleep, she handed me one last book.
"This one," she said, "isn't for now."
I frowned. "Then why give it to me?"
"Because one day," she replied, "you'll stop running."
I looked at the cover.
No title. Just old symbols.
"…And then?"
She turned away, already checking the perimeter.
"Then you'll need to know how not to break yourself."
I lay back, staring up at the stars through the branches.
Sore. Tired. Smarter than yesterday.
Still alive.
That felt like progress.
Tomorrow, I'd read more.
And if something chased us again—
…I already knew what I'd do.
Run first.