The days blended together into a steady rhythm—work from dawn until dusk, training under the pale light of the moons. Each morning began with Rorik's sharp knock on the door, pulling me from sleep. Each night ended with sweat dripping down my face and the ache of muscles pushed to their limits.
Two weeks had passed this way, and the monotony should have been unbearable. But it wasn't. Every task I did on the farm, every bale of hay I lifted, every stall I cleaned—it all felt like part of something bigger. The quiet determination I carried in my chest, the fire that burned with every punch, kick, and swing of an axe, kept me going.
Emery had settled into the routine easily, her laughter and quick wit filling the spaces between work. She was growing more confident every day, her smiles coming more freely, her presence a steady source of comfort.
For me, the work was harder, but I didn't mind. The long hours of labor were just another step toward my goal. Every bead of sweat, every burning muscle was a reminder that I was getting stronger.
And yet, the uncertainty lingered.
The changing. It was all anyone seemed to talk about when the subject of warriors and magi came up. That mystical, unexplainable moment when a mark would appear, unlocking a path of power. Bjorn had it. Ingrid had it. Even Sten, quiet and deadly, had it.
But I didn't.
I pushed the thought away each time it crept into my mind. It didn't matter. I would keep working, keep training. I would make my own way, with or without a mark.
---
The sun was high overhead, its heat bearing down as I hefted another bale of hay onto the cart. My arms burned, my shirt clinging to my back as sweat dripped from my brow. Rorik was nearby, his broad frame silhouetted against the light as he worked with the efficiency of someone who'd done this for years.
"Take a breather," he said, straightening and wiping his hands on his tunic.
I nodded, setting the pitchfork down and leaning against the cart. My breath came in heavy bursts, but I didn't complain.
Rorik studied me for a moment, his hard eyes narrowing slightly. "You're relentless," he said, almost to himself.
"Just trying to keep up," I replied, shrugging.
He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You're doing more than that."
For a moment, he was silent, his gaze distant. Then, almost as if he'd decided something, he turned back to me. "I know what you've been doing at night."
My stomach dropped, but I forced myself to stay calm. "What do you mean?"
"You think I don't notice?" he said, his voice steady but not unkind. "I see the way you drag yourself out of bed every morning, the bruises on your hands, the way your muscles are starting to fill out. You've been training."
I swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. "I didn't mean to—"
He raised a hand, cutting me off. "I'm not angry. In fact, I respect it. Most people would've given up by now, but you keep going. That's not something I see often."
I blinked, surprised by his words. "Thank you," I said, my voice quieter than I intended.
"But," he continued, his tone growing serious, "you need guidance. Swinging an axe at shadows and running yourself ragged won't get you where you want to go."
I looked at him, my heart pounding. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I'll train you," he said simply. "After we finish the day's work, I'll teach you what I know about being a warrior."
The words hit me like a bolt of lightning. I stared at him, unsure if I'd heard correctly. "You mean it?"
He nodded. "But there's a condition."
"Anything," I said quickly.
"You've got six months," he said, his voice steady but firm. "If the changing doesn't happen by then, you'll need to think about another way to survive in this world. Most people don't go through the changing, and I won't let you waste your life chasing something that might never come."
The words stung, but I could see the intent behind them. He wasn't trying to discourage me—he was trying to protect me.
I nodded slowly. "I understand."
"Good," he said, picking up his pitchfork. "Then let's get back to work. We've still got a long day ahead of us."
---
As I worked, Rorik's words echoed in my mind. He thought I was a kid chasing an impossible dream. He was trying to prepare me for failure, to soften the blow if the changing never came.
But he didn't understand.
I wasn't like the others who hoped for a mark to appear out of nowhere. I wasn't waiting—I was fighting. Every step I took, every swing of the axe, every punch and kick was a step closer to the person I wanted to be.
And I believed, deep in my core, that the changing would come.
Because it had to.
For Emery. For me. For the life I was carving out of this brutal, unforgiving world.
---
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I stood in the barn, the faint glow of the lantern casting long shadows on the walls. My hands were raw, my arms trembling from the day's work, but I felt a new sense of purpose.
Rorik appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
"Let's see what you've got," he said, his voice low and steady.
And so, my training truly began.