The second day after you almost die is worse than the first.
The first day is shock. Relief. People hovering too close, afraid you'll disappear if they blink. The second day is when your body remembers everything it went through and files a formal complaint.
I wake up sore in places I didn't know had opinions.
My back aches. My shoulders feel like I carried something heavy in my sleep. Even my hands feel tired, fingers stiff as if they spent the night gripping something invisible.
'Amazing,' I think. 'I survived magic fever only to be murdered by muscle soreness.'
I stay still for a while, listening to the room. Everyone is asleep. Selene's breathing is soft and uneven. My father snores faintly, the sound rough but steady. My mother's breaths are shallow but calm.
Stable.
That word again.
I sit up slowly, careful not to wake anyone, and swing my legs off the mat. The floor is cold under my feet, grounding in a way that feels intentional.
No dizziness.
No weakness.
Just soreness and awareness.
'I'll take it,' I decide.
I step outside before the city fully wakes.
Matra at dawn is almost gentle. Fog clings low to the streets, muting sound and blurring edges. For a few precious moments, the city forgets how sharp it usually is. Footsteps echo softly. A vendor coughs somewhere far away. Water drips steadily from a broken gutter.
I climb onto the roof the careful way—not because I'm afraid of falling, but because falling would be embarrassing at this point.
The stones are uneven, patched and repatched over the years, but I know them now. I know which ones shift under weight and which ones hold. I stand still and let my body settle.
'Okay,' I think. 'No heroics. Today's goal is not breaking anything.'
Low expectations. Consistently effective.
I don't train.
Not the way people imagine training.
I don't throw punches at the air or strain muscles until they scream. I just… move. Slowly. Deliberately. I shift my weight from heel to toe, adjusting my balance until it feels natural. I roll my shoulders, stretch my spine, breathe in measured counts.
Four in. Six out.
My body resists at first. Old habits tug at me, urging speed, urging force.
'Relax,' I tell myself. 'This isn't a performance review.'
The pressure in the air responds—not surging, not retreating. Just observing. Mana brushes the edges of my awareness, curious but restrained.
I don't acknowledge it.
A faint headache threatens.
I stop immediately.
'Boundaries,' I remind myself. 'Still a thing.'
The ache fades.
Good.
From below, Matra stirs awake.
I watch people emerge from their homes, shoulders already hunched in preparation for the day. Everyone carries something—buckets, baskets, resentment. Survival has a posture, and the city wears it well.
'You can tell how long someone's lived here by how they walk,' I think. 'The ground teaches you.'
I file that away.
When I come down, my father is awake.
He's sitting near the door, tightening a wrap around his knee, jaw clenched in quiet determination. He glances up when I enter, eyes narrowing slightly.
"You're moving quieter," he says.
I freeze.
'Was I?' I think. 'Please tell me I didn't accidentally become ominous.'
"I practiced not falling," I reply.
He nods, accepting that like it's the most reasonable answer in the world. "Good habit."
It is.
The day unfolds in small, ordinary tasks.
Fetching water. Sweeping dust that will be back by evening. Helping my mother with chores she insists aren't chores. My body complains constantly, but it's a clean complaint—no sharp pain, no warning signs. Just work.
I notice things as I move.
How my steps land more evenly now. How I instinctively avoid unstable stones. How my breathing syncs with effort instead of fighting it.
'This is new,' I think. 'I used to live in my head. Now I'm… occupying the rest of me.'
It's unsettling.
And useful.
The alley kids notice too.
They always do.
Not because I'm stronger or faster, but because I don't flinch anymore. When someone bumps me on purpose, I don't tense. I don't shrink. I just stop and look at them.
Not angry.
Not afraid.
Present.
The moment stretches awkwardly.
The other kid looks away first.
'Huh,' I think. 'Confidence without strength is apparently still a thing.'
Interesting.
In the afternoon, I sit near the broken wall again.
This spot feels different—older somehow. Mana gathers here more densely, clinging to stone like memory. I sit and watch dust drift in the sunlight, tracing lazy arcs through the air.
I don't close my eyes.
I don't reach.
I observe.
The world feels layered—solid surfaces on top, something fluid underneath. Like a current you could drown in if you forgot how to swim.
'Not today,' I think.
A dull pressure forms behind my eyes.
I back off.
Almost is enough.
That evening, dinner is quiet but warm.
Not better food. Not more of it.
Just… warmer.
My father manages a careful walk across the room without grimacing. Selene applauds like he's performed a miracle. My mother smiles and pretends not to notice the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
Lio watches everything.
He always does.
'He's storing this,' I think. 'Every detail.'
That thought both reassures and worries me.
After dinner, Lio corners me near the door.
"You stop before things happen," he says abruptly.
I blink. "That sounds bad."
"No," he insists. "It's smart."
He frowns, frustrated. "I keep wanting to see what happens if I push."
'There it is,' I think. 'The difference.'
"And?" I ask.
"And you don't," he says. "Why?"
I consider my answer carefully.
"Because the world pushes back," I say finally. "And it usually pushes harder."
He absorbs that in silence.
'I hope he remembers it,' I think. 'And I hope he ignores it just enough to be himself.'
Night settles over Matra.
I lie on my mat, muscles aching in a way that feels earned, listening to the familiar sounds of the city negotiating with tomorrow. My body feels tired but intact.
The system stirs faintly.
[Stability Maintained]
[No Intervention Required]
I smile into the darkness.
"High praise," I whisper.
[No Response]
Of course not.
Before sleep claims me, I adjust my promise again—not out of fear, but out of clarity.
'I don't need power yet,' I think.
'I need discipline.
Because in a place like Matra, falling apart is easy.
Staying whole?
That takes practice.