The boy learned the boundaries of his body the way one learns a map drawn in fading ink—by walking into mistakes and remembering where they happened.
Morning work did not change.
It never did.
He woke before dawn, not because anyone demanded it, but because the ache in his chest grew worse if he slept too long in one position. The pallet pressed against his ribs, and eventually pain forced him upright whether he was ready or not.
Cold water from the bucket helped. It shocked his hands awake and gave him something immediate to focus on. He learned to splash his face slowly, breathing through his nose, letting the sting anchor him.
The man with the scars—he still did not know his name—watched him more closely now.
Not constantly. Just enough.
The axe still rose and fell with the same steady rhythm. Wood split cleanly. The man never seemed to tire, never paused to stretch his back or roll his shoulders. His body moved as if it had long ago accepted what it was capable of and refused to argue with itself anymore.
The boy envied that.
"Carry," the man said, nodding toward a stack of firewood once the chopping was done.
The boy lifted the first bundle and nearly dropped it.
The pain in his chest flared sharp and bright, a reminder that improvement did not mean recovery. He adjusted his grip, shifting the weight closer to his center the way instinct suggested.
The man watched.
"You favor your right side," he said.
The boy froze. "I do?"
"Yes." The axe rested against the man's shoulder now. "You lean without realizing it."
The boy frowned and tried to straighten. The movement sent a ripple of discomfort through his ribs.
"Don't correct it yet," the man added. "Just notice."
They worked in silence after that.
By midday, the boy's arms trembled when he set the final bundle down. Sweat clung to his hairline despite the cool air. He bent forward slightly, hands braced against his knees, breathing shallowly.
The man handed him a cup of water without comment.
The boy accepted it, surprised enough that he nearly forgot to drink.
"Eat," the man said. "Then follow me."
The words landed heavier than they should have.
Follow.
He glanced instinctively toward the girl, but she was nowhere in sight. The cooking fire had burned down to embers, the pot scraped clean.
The man was already walking away.
They did not take the path toward the stones this time.
Instead, they headed downhill, toward a part of the ruins the boy had not been sent to before. The buildings there had collapsed more thoroughly, roofs caved in, walls swallowed by vines and damp rot. The air smelled different—earthy, sharp, layered with unfamiliar scents.
Herbs.
Bundles hung from beams inside a half-standing structure. Some were dried and brittle. Others were fresh, still glistening faintly with sap. Clay jars lined the walls, each marked with symbols the boy could not read.
Someone was already inside.
At first, the boy thought the man was alone.
Then he noticed movement near the back.
An old figure sat hunched over a low table, hands stained dark with residue. The person did not look up as they approached, did not acknowledge their presence at all.
The boy slowed.
The man did not.
"This is where you'll be working now," the man said. "When you're not splitting wood."
The old figure snorted softly, still focused on their task.
"Working," the boy repeated. "Doing what?"
The man gestured vaguely. "Whatever doesn't kill you."
That was not reassuring.
The old figure finally looked up.
The boy's first impression was wrongness—not danger, not malice, but a subtle sense that things did not align the way they should. The old man's eyes were sharp, too sharp for a body that hunched and trembled the way his did. His fingers shook slightly as he reached for a tool, but the movement stopped the instant he touched it.
"Is this the broken one?" the old man asked.
The boy bristled. "I have a—"
"You have nothing," the old man interrupted mildly. His gaze flicked over the boy's posture, his breathing, the way his shoulders refused to settle evenly. "But you do have damage. That's something."
The man with the scars crossed his arms. "He survives work."
"That narrows it down," the old man said dryly.
He gestured toward a crate near the wall. "Sit."
The boy hesitated, then obeyed.
The crate was lower than expected. His knees bent sharply, sending a flare of pain up his legs. He clenched his jaw and said nothing.
The old man watched closely.
"Stand," he said suddenly.
The boy did.
"Sit again."
He did.
"Again."
The third time, his balance wavered. He caught himself on the edge of the table, breath hitching.
The old man nodded slowly. "There. That moment."
The boy frowned. "What moment?"
"The one where your body disagrees with itself," the old man replied. "You lean forward because your legs are weak. You tense your shoulders to compensate. Your breath shortens. Everything adjusts, but not together."
The boy stared at him. "So?"
"So," the old man said, "you are very difficult to stabilize."
The man with the scars grunted. "That sounds bad."
"It is," the old man agreed. "For him."
He reached beneath the table and pulled out a small bowl filled with dark liquid. The smell was sharp and unpleasant, different from the medicine the girl prepared.
"Drink."
The boy recoiled instinctively. "What is it?"
The old man shrugged. "Something that will tell me more than your answers would."
"That's not comforting."
"Good."
The man with the scars watched silently as the boy took the bowl. He hesitated only a moment before drinking.
The liquid burned.
Not like the medicine before—this was colder, biting as it went down, spreading outward instead of settling. His stomach clenched violently. He gagged and barely managed to swallow.
The old man leaned forward, eyes bright.
"Breathe," he instructed. "Slowly. Don't fight it."
The boy tried.
The world tilted.
His vision dimmed at the edges, colors draining away until everything looked washed out and distant. His heart pounded erratically, each beat uneven, as if struggling to find a rhythm.
He collapsed to one knee.
The man with the scars stepped forward, but the old man raised a hand.
"Wait."
The boy's breath hitched. Something twisted inside his chest, sharp and sudden. He cried out despite himself, fingers digging into the dirt floor.
Then, just as abruptly, the pain stopped.
Not faded—stopped.
He gasped, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his face.
The old man exhaled slowly. "Interesting."
The boy looked up, fury cutting through the haze. "What did you give me?"
"A mild disruptor," the old man replied calmly. "It interferes with internal circulation. Most people feel dizzy. Some vomit. A few faint."
"And me?"
"You," the old man said, eyes gleaming, "experienced resistance."
The boy pushed himself upright, shaking. "Resistance to what?"
"To being corrected," the old man replied. "Your body doesn't like being told what to do."
"That's not—"
The old man waved him off. "Yes, yes. Everyone thinks that's normal. It isn't."
He turned to the man with the scars. "You found something troublesome."
The man shrugged. "He doesn't die."
"That's usually the first requirement," the old man said. He looked back at the boy. "Can you feel it?"
The boy hesitated.
He did not want to answer.
But the sensation lingered—a faint pressure beneath his skin, like threads pulled just tight enough to notice. They had reacted to the disruptor, tightening instinctively, resisting the forced adjustment.
"Yes," he said finally. "I feel… something."
The old man smiled.
"Good. That means you can be taught."
The boy's stomach sank. "Taught what?"
The old man's smile widened slightly. "How not to fix yourself."
The man with the scars snorted. "That sounds like something you'd say."
The old man ignored him. "People like you," he continued, "break when forced into proper alignment. Their bodies don't heal the way they should. Their meridians resist correction."
The boy swallowed. "So I'm broken."
"Yes," the old man said easily. "But broken things behave honestly. They show stress. They reveal pressure points."
He leaned closer. "Unbroken systems hide them."
The boy's hands trembled.
The old man straightened. "You'll help me prepare mixtures. Grind herbs. Stir concoctions. Sometimes you'll be the one drinking them."
The boy's expression darkened. "And if I refuse?"
The old man shrugged. "Then you'll go back to splitting wood until your body gives out."
The man with the scars added, "That won't take long."
The boy closed his eyes briefly.
"I'll help," he said.
The old man nodded. "Good. You'll start with sorting."
He gestured to a pile of dried herbs. "Separate those by smell."
"Smell?" the boy echoed.
"Yes."
"There are no labels."
"Correct."
The boy stared at the pile. "How am I supposed to know which is which?"
The old man raised an eyebrow. "If you can't tell the difference between numbing agents and toxins by scent alone, you shouldn't be here."
"That wasn't a lesson," the boy muttered.
The old man smiled faintly. "No. That's work."
Hours passed.
The boy's head throbbed from concentrating. His nose burned from sharp, bitter, acrid scents. He sneezed more than once, earning an annoyed glance from the old man but no rebuke.
He made mistakes.
Each one was corrected without comment. The wrong pile was pushed back toward him. He tried again.
Slowly, patterns emerged.
Some scents prickled sharply, like needles behind his eyes. Others dulled his senses, making the world feel distant. A few made his chest tighten in that familiar, uncomfortable way.
Those, he learned, the old man watched most closely.
By dusk, his hands were stained and his head felt too heavy for his neck. He swayed slightly as he stood.
"That's enough," the old man said. "Go eat."
The boy left the shed with unsteady steps.
The girl was waiting near the fire, stirring another pot. She glanced up as he approached.
"You smell worse than usual," she remarked.
He managed a weak smile. "I think that's an improvement."
She snorted softly and handed him a bowl.
As he ate, he noticed her watching him more intently than before.
"What?" he asked.
"You stood inside a broken array," she said. "Now you've been drinking disruptors."
He shrugged carefully. "Apparently I resist correction."
Her gaze sharpened. "Do you feel different?"
He considered.
The pain was still there. The imbalance. But beneath it all, something had settled into place—not comfort, not stability, but awareness.
"Yes," he said slowly. "Like I'm… not alone in my body."
She looked away. "That's not always a good thing."
Night fell.
He lay on his pallet, exhaustion dragging him down. As he drifted toward sleep, the sensation returned—thin lines of pressure responding faintly to his breath.
This time, he did not panic.
He followed them instead.
They tightened as he inhaled. Loosened as he exhaled.
Not energy.
Not yet.
But structure.
Somewhere outside, the wind moved through broken wood.
The boy slept.
And for the first time, the things shaping him did not feel entirely accidental.