The days blurred into weeks, and the weeks into months. Logan could hardly believe it had been three months since he and Emery arrived at the war camp. The grueling routine of training and study had become his life, shaping him into someone new. The boy he had been on Earth, the college student navigating the mundane challenges of everyday life, felt like a distant memory. Here in Aeloria, he was becoming something more.
Yet, he wasn't sure if that was a good thing.
Logan sat on the edge of his bed, lacing up his boots. His body felt stronger, harder, but the ache of constant exertion never left him. The scars on his arms and legs told stories of sparring sessions that were more like survival exercises. The axe in his hand felt like an extension of himself now, no longer foreign. He had pushed himself to limits he didn't know existed, but in the back of his mind, the fear still lingered.
What if it wasn't enough?
He glanced at the corner of the room where his axes and shield rested, the weapons glinting faintly in the dim morning light. The tools of his transformation, but also reminders of the burden he had taken on.
---
The morning began as it always did, with Ulrik waiting for him in the courtyard. The towering warrior stood like a statue, his massive axe resting casually on one shoulder.
"You're late," Ulrik grunted.
Logan rolled his eyes. "I'm early."
"Not early enough," Ulrik shot back with a smirk.
The first part of the day was always spent with Ulrik, honing his strength and axe skills. They started with weightlifting—massive stones that Logan had to lift, carry, and stack in increasingly complex patterns. His muscles burned with each repetition, but Ulrik's sharp commands kept him moving.
Afterward came sparring. Logan faced Ulrik with his axe and shield, learning to read the veteran's movements and anticipate his attacks. Ulrik was relentless, his blows like thunderclaps, his shield a wall that Logan struggled to breach.
"Don't think—act," Ulrik barked as Logan hesitated for a fraction of a second too long.
Logan adjusted his stance, driving forward with his shield to create an opening for his axe. The blade grazed Ulrik's shoulder, a small victory that earned him a grudging nod of approval.
---
Leif's training came next, focused on sharpening Logan's speed and perception. The wiry warrior led him through obstacle courses that tested his reflexes and agility. He had to dodge swinging logs, leap over tripwires, and navigate tight spaces while under a barrage of thrown objects.
"You're slow," Leif teased, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "Faster, or you'll be dead before you can blink."
Logan gritted his teeth and pushed himself harder, his body responding with an urgency born of necessity.
Leif also trained him to read his environment, pointing out subtle shifts in light, sound, and movement. Logan's senses grew keener, his awareness expanding to include details he once would have missed.
---
Afternoons were spent with Sigurd, who drilled Logan relentlessly in the art of dual axes. The savage warrior seemed to take particular delight in pushing Logan to his limits, his strikes coming faster and harder than Logan thought possible.
"Control your balance," Sigurd growled as Logan stumbled backward from a poorly executed attack. "Two axes give you power, but only if you can wield them properly."
Logan adjusted his stance, focusing on keeping his movements fluid. He parried Sigurd's next strike with one axe while driving the other toward his opponent's side. Sigurd blocked it effortlessly, but a glint of approval flashed in his eyes.
"Better," Sigurd admitted grudgingly.
---
Evenings were reserved for Vidal's lessons, which were no less demanding. The Magi's lectures on arrays and runes were fast-paced and complex, leaving Logan's head spinning. He spent hours drawing and redrawing arrays, his hands cramping from the effort.
"Meditate," Vidal would remind him every night. "You won't feel anything until you let yourself relax. Mana doesn't respond to force—it responds to understanding."
Logan sat cross-legged, his eyes closed, trying to focus on the air around him. He still felt nothing, but he kept trying, determined to break through the barrier.
---
The war camp had become a strange kind of home, its inhabitants an odd mix of ruthless warriors and enigmatic Magi. Logan had grown closer to some of them, though their personalities often clashed with his own.
Hakon's booming laughter echoed through the halls as he regaled everyone with exaggerated tales of his victories. Yrsa's sharp wit kept Logan on his toes, her teasing a constant challenge to his composure. Even Freya, with her gentle demeanor, had become a source of comfort, always ready with a kind word or healing touch.
Emery had grown too. She spent her days with Freya, learning the intricacies of healing magic and basic medicine. Her confidence was growing, though she still struggled with her insecurities about keeping up with Logan.
---
That night, Logan sat outside the main hall, the cool air brushing against his skin. He stared at the stars, his thoughts churning.
Three months of relentless training, of pushing himself beyond what he thought was possible. He was stronger, faster, more skilled than ever before. But was it enough?
He thought of Emery, of her determination to contribute, to protect herself and those she cared about. She was his anchor, his reason for enduring this grueling life.
"I'll keep going," he murmured to himself. "No matter what it takes. I'll protect her. I'll protect us."
With that thought, he stood and made his way back to his room, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.