The knock on the door was softer this time, but still insistent. I groaned, rolling over and opening my eyes to see Rorik standing in the doorway. The faint light of dawn was just beginning to filter through the window.
"Time to get up," he said, his tone as no-nonsense as ever.
I swung my legs out of bed, wincing as my muscles protested. The aches from yesterday's work hadn't faded, but I knew better than to complain. Rorik wasn't the kind of man who tolerated excuses.
Emery stirred under the quilt, blinking sleepily at me. "Another early start?"
"Looks like it," I said, pulling on my tunic.
"Good luck," she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep.
I gave her a small smile and followed Rorik out into the crisp morning air.
---
The morning routine was beginning to feel familiar. The cool breeze carried the scent of dew and hay, and the faint sounds of animals waking filled the farm. The barn loomed ahead, its doors wide open, the stacks of hay and tools waiting like silent sentinels.
"Same as yesterday?" I asked as we entered.
Rorik nodded. "Hay needs moving, tools need organizing. And keep the stalls clean. Animals don't take care of themselves."
I got to work, the motions coming easier now. The bales of hay didn't feel quite as heavy, and my hands had started to toughen against the rough texture. The repetitive tasks gave my mind room to wander, and I found myself thinking about the training I'd done the night before. My body ached in new ways, but it felt… good. Like progress.
Rorik didn't say much as we worked, his gruff presence a constant but not overbearing. Occasionally, he would point out something I'd missed or offer a quick correction, but for the most part, he let me figure things out on my own.
---
By midday, the sun was high in the sky, and the warmth of it on my back was both a comfort and a drain. When Rorik finally called for a break, I practically sagged with relief.
We headed back to the house, where the scent of fresh bread and stew greeted us. The kitchen was lively, the warmth of the fire matched by the energy of the people inside. Emery was there, her hair tied back as she helped Inga set the table.
"You survived another morning," she said, smiling as she placed a bowl of stew in front of me.
"Barely," I muttered, sinking into the chair with a groan.
"You're getting faster," Rorik said, his tone neutral but not unkind. "Keep it up."
Emery sat down beside me, her face bright. "I helped bake bread this morning," she said, clearly proud.
"She's a natural," Inga added, sitting down across from us. "And she's learning quickly."
"It's not that hard," Emery said, though the flush in her cheeks betrayed her modesty.
"You seem to like it here," I said, glancing at her.
She shrugged, her smile softening. "It's not so bad. Inga's been really kind, and it's nice to… feel useful."
I nodded, relieved to see her settling in. For the first time in days, she seemed relaxed, almost happy.
---
After lunch, it was back to work. The tasks were the same, but the rhythm of them felt more manageable now. I fell into a steady pace, my thoughts wandering again as I hauled hay and cleaned stalls.
By the time the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the barn was clean, the tools organized, and the animals fed. I straightened, stretching out my sore back as Rorik gave the barn a final once-over.
"Not bad," he said finally, his tone gruff but approving.
"Thanks," I said, wiping the sweat from my brow.
"Dinner in an hour," he added before heading back to the house.
---
Dinner that evening was a quiet affair, the warmth of the hearth and the soft chatter of voices filling the room. Emery sat beside me, her smile coming easily as she recounted her day helping Inga.
"I think I might've overcooked one of the loaves," she admitted, laughing softly.
"It was fine," Inga assured her. "You'll get the hang of it."
The sound of their laughter was comforting, a reminder that, for now at least, we had a safe place to rest.
After the meal, Inga gave us a gentle smile. "You've both had a long day. Get some rest. Tomorrow will be just as busy."
I nodded, standing and stretching. "Goodnight," I said, glancing at Emery.
"Goodnight," she replied, her voice soft but warm.
---
The room was quiet and dark as I lay in bed, the weight of the day settling over me. My body was tired, but my mind was restless, thoughts of training and preparation swirling endlessly.
A soft knock broke the silence, and a moment later, Emery slipped into the room. She hesitated by the door, her arms crossed over her chest.
"I can't sleep alone," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
I sat up, motioning for her to come closer. "You don't have to be," I said simply.
She crossed the room and climbed into the bed beside me, her presence a steady warmth against the cool night air.
Once she drifted off to sleep, I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her. The moonlight bathed the farm in a soft glow as I made my way to the barn.
---
Inside, I repeated the routine I'd started the night before—stretches to loosen my sore muscles, then bodyweight exercises to build strength. My push-ups were smoother now, my squats deeper, the ache in my muscles familiar and almost welcome.
I moved into shadowboxing, my feet light against the barn floor as I practiced combinations and worked on my coordination. Each punch and kick felt sharper, more precise.
Finally, I picked up the axes, their weight familiar in my hands. I practiced with them, the rough handles digging into my palms as I swung and blocked imaginary strikes. The movements were fluid, instinctive, the axes feeling like extensions of my arms.
By the time I was done, my body was trembling with exhaustion, my shirt soaked with sweat. But I felt stronger. More capable.
As I leaned against the barn wall, staring out at the twin moons, I made a silent vow to myself: I would keep going. I would get stronger. For Emery. For both of us.
---
I returned to the house quietly, slipping back into bed beside Emery. She stirred slightly, murmuring my name, but didn't wake. As I lay there, the weight of exhaustion finally pulling me under, I felt a faint sense of peace. For now, we were safe. And tomorrow would be another step forward.