The valley didn't change all at once.
It crept.
One morning the dew lingered longer on the grass. Another day, insects avoided certain patches of soil like something underneath made them uncomfortable. The air felt thicker—not heavy enough to slow me down, just enough that I noticed my breathing before I noticed why.
Porlyusica noticed first.
"You're reacting faster," she said one morning without looking at me. "Too fast."
I blinked. "Is that bad?"
She glanced over her shoulder. "It is if you don't know why."
That was her way of saying slow down.
We were moving through uneven ground, roots and stone half-hidden under moss. She walked ahead, steady and deliberate. I followed, basket slung over my shoulder, eyes on the terrain. Not because I was told to—because tripping here meant falling hard.
A branch snapped under my foot.
I shifted without thinking.
Too fast.
My body corrected itself before my mind finished processing the slip. My foot landed, balance regained—
—and then my knee buckled anyway.
I went down with a sharp hiss, palms scraping stone.
Porlyusica stopped.
She didn't rush back. Didn't scold. Just watched.
I pushed myself up, teeth clenched, pretending my knee didn't throb. "I'm fine."
She stared at me like I'd just lied badly.
"You reacted before your muscles finished the motion," she said. "Your nerves fired early. Your body followed late."
"…That sounds inefficient," I muttered.
She snorted. "You're seven."
Fair point.
She knelt and pressed two fingers lightly against my calf, then my thigh. Not magic—just checking. "You're not injured. But you're compensating."
"For what?"
She stood. "That's what worries me."
We didn't talk about it after that.
The rest of the day passed quietly. We gathered what we needed, avoided what we didn't. I paid attention to where she stepped, how she chose plants, how she never picked the first thing she saw—even if it was correct.
Patience, not speed.
That night, after we set camp, I pulled out my notebook.
It was already worn at the edges. Dirt-smudged. Bent from being shoved into my pack one too many times. I liked it that way—it felt used, honest.
I wrote:
Body reacted faster than balance today. Fell anyway. Knee hurts. Porlyusica noticed. Didn't explain.
I paused, then added:
Feels like my body is helping before I ask it to. That's good. But it doesn't feel free.
I closed the book before it turned into something heavier than it needed to be.
Porlyusica tossed me a piece of dried meat. "Eat."
I caught it. "Yes, ma'am."
She raised a brow.
"…Yes, Porlyusica."
Better.
The next few days followed a pattern.
Morning movement. Midday gathering. Evening rest. No rushing. No shortcuts. She corrected my posture more than my technique—how I lifted, how I breathed, how I stopped.
Stopping was harder than moving.
Sometimes I felt it—the faint hum under my skin. Not loud. Not strong. Just… present. When I focused too much, it pushed back. When I ignored it, it nudged forward.
Like a stubborn mule.
During one climb, my hands found holds faster than expected. Fingers gripping stone before I consciously chose where to grab. It felt good for exactly half a second.
Then my forearm cramped.
I hung there, jaw clenched, refusing to call out.
Porlyusica sighed. "Let go."
"I've got it."
"You don't."
I let go.
She caught my pack strap before I dropped more than a foot.
"Stubborn," she muttered.
"Taught by experts."
That earned me a sharp look… and the corner of her mouth twitched.
Later, as we rested near a stream, she finally spoke.
"You're reinforcing your body," she said. "Not deliberately. It's responding to stress. To intent."
I leaned back on my hands. "Is that… bad?"
She considered. "It's dangerous if you pretend it isn't happening."
I nodded. That I could work with.
"So what do I do?"
"You slow down," she said. "You don't chase the feeling. You don't test limits for fun."
"…What if I test them for science?"
Her glare could've curdled milk.
"Joking," I said quickly. "Mostly."
That night, the pain came late.
Not sharp. Dull. Deep. Like my muscles were arguing with each other about who was supposed to be in charge.
I lay on my bedroll, staring up at the stars, hands folded on my stomach. Breathing steady. Letting the ache exist without pushing against it.
That was new.
Usually, I pushed.
Porlyusica spoke from the other side of the fire. "Still awake?"
"Unfortunately."
"Good. Means you're listening."
I turned my head. "To what?"
"Your body," she said. "It's not breaking. It's adjusting. But adjustment has a price."
I exhaled slowly. "Everything does."
She didn't respond. Not because she disagreed—because she didn't need to.
The next morning, I moved slower.
Not weaker. Just… deliberate.
My steps landed where I chose them. My hands waited for confirmation before gripping. The hum under my skin quieted—not gone, just less insistent.
Porlyusica watched. Said nothing.
At one point, I nearly slipped again.
This time, I didn't overcorrect.
I caught myself the normal way. It hurt less.
She nodded once.
Later that day, as we packed up, she spoke again. "Whatever you're becoming," she said, "it's not a shortcut."
I slung my pack on. "Figures."
"It will cost you," she continued. "Endurance. Pain. Time."
I glanced back at the valley—the strange quiet, the avoided ground, the subtle wrongness I couldn't name yet.
"I'm used to paying," I said.
She studied me for a long moment. Then turned away.
That night, I wrote again.
Slower works better. Body helps if I don't force it. Pain means I pushed too early.
I hesitated, then added one last line.
If this is the beginning, I need to survive the middle.
I closed the notebook, tucked it away, and lay back down.
The valley remained quiet.
But something underneath it was paying attention now.
And so was I.