A week had passed, each day blending into the next with an almost mechanical rhythm.
Mornings began with work. Moving hay, feeding animals, and cleaning stalls under the watchful eye of Rorik. By now, the tasks felt almost automatic, my body moving without thought. The once-crushing weight of the hay bales had grown lighter, the aches in my muscles becoming a dull, familiar thrum.
Afternoons were grueling in a different way. After lunch, Rorik pushed me through punishing conditioning drills, the kind that left my legs shaking and my lungs burning. Strength and endurance—that's what he called it. Body enhancement, I thought to myself. It was all part of a larger plan, though Rorik rarely explained his methods.
Nights were the hardest. The sparring sessions in the barn were brutal. Rorik's critiques cut as deeply as his strikes, exposing every flaw in my technique.
"You're still hesitating," he'd say, dodging my jab and countering with a quick strike to my ribs.
"Stop telegraphing your movements," he'd bark, deflecting my kicks with ease.
It was exhausting, physically and mentally. But it was progress.
---
By the fourth day, I stopped waiting for the knock on the door to wake me. Instead, I started rising before dawn, dressing quietly and stepping outside into the chill of the early morning. It felt like a small victory—taking control of my routine, meeting the day on my terms.
Rorik noticed, of course. He always noticed.
"About time," he'd muttered one morning, though there was a flicker of approval in his eyes.
---
By the seventh day, the routine had become second nature. My body ached constantly, my muscles tight and sore, but I didn't mind. Each pain was a marker of growth, a reminder of the progress I was making.
That morning, something was different.
The knock didn't come.
I sat up, frowning at the faint light filtering through the window. For a moment, I thought I might've overslept, but the sun was still low in the sky.
Quietly, I slipped out of bed, glancing at Emery as she stirred slightly under the quilt. "I'll be back," I whispered, though she didn't respond.
---
The house was eerily quiet as I stepped into the hallway, my footsteps muffled against the wooden floor.
In the kitchen, I found Rorik sitting at the table. A single candle flickered between us, its soft light casting shadows across his face. His expression was unreadable, his hands resting loosely on the table.
"You're up early," I said, trying to break the silence.
He looked at me, his sharp eyes glinting in the dim light. "So are you."
I hesitated, waiting for him to tell me what needed to be done. But instead of giving me orders, he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
"We're not working today," he said finally, his voice calm but firm.
The words caught me off guard. "What do you mean?"
Rorik's gaze didn't waver. "We're doing something else."
There was something in his tone—a weight, a finality—that sent a chill down my spine.
"What kind of 'something'?" I asked cautiously.
He didn't answer, simply nodding toward the door. "Get ready. I'll explain on the way."