Rhaedric woke before dawn, the cabin still cloaked in darkness. The storm had passed in the night, leaving the world outside buried in fresh snow. He could hear the wind whispering through the trees, far gentler than before, as if the land itself were catching its breath.
Garran was already awake. The mercenary sat by the hearth, sharpening a hunting knife with slow, practiced movements. Sparks danced off the whetstone as steel met stone. He glanced up briefly as Rhaedric stirred but said nothing.
The boy sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His body still ached from days of running, but the warmth of the cabin had dulled the worst of it. He swung his legs over the side of the cot, his bare feet brushing against the cold wooden floor.
"Eat first," Garran said, tossing him a small loaf of hard bread and a strip of dried meat. "Then we start."
Rhaedric didn't need to ask what he meant. He chewed in silence, his stomach no longer protesting as violently as it had the day before. He was still weaker than he wanted to be, but the food helped.
Once he finished, Garran stood and grabbed a second knife from the table. He held it out, hilt first. "Let's see if you're worth the trouble."
Rhaedric took the weapon, feeling the familiar weight of it in his palm. He wasn't completely unfamiliar with blades—his father had ensured he and his siblings received basic training. But he had never been taught to fight for his life. Not like this.
Garran led him outside, where the snow crunched beneath their boots. The morning air was sharp and biting, but Rhaedric barely felt it. His focus was on the man standing before him, his own knife held loosely at his side.
"First rule," Garran said, "a knife fight is never clean. You don't win by skill alone. You win by being faster, meaner, and more willing to walk away covered in blood."
Rhaedric swallowed. He tightened his grip on the blade.
Garran smirked. "Come at me."
Rhaedric hesitated for only a second before stepping forward, slashing toward Garran's side. The mercenary moved like a shadow, sidestepping with ease. A sharp sting blossomed along Rhaedric's wrist as Garran's blade flicked out, drawing a thin line of red across his skin.
"Too slow," Garran said. "Again."
Rhaedric clenched his jaw, ignoring the pain. He lunged again, this time aiming for Garran's stomach. The mercenary batted his strike away with the flat of his blade and delivered a sharp kick to the boy's leg, sending him sprawling into the snow.
He landed hard, gasping as the cold bit into his skin.
"Again."
Rhaedric pushed himself up, breathing heavily. He charged, feinting left before twisting his wrist and slashing upward. Garran nodded approvingly as he dodged, but the moment of recognition cost him—Rhaedric's free hand lashed out, grabbing a handful of snow and flinging it into his opponent's face.
Garran flinched, and for the first time, Rhaedric's blade found its mark. The tip pressed against the mercenary's ribs—just a fraction of an inch from being a true strike.
The world seemed to hold still for a moment.
Then Garran chuckled.
"Not bad," he admitted, stepping back. "Not bad at all." He wiped the snow from his face and sheathed his knife. "You learn quick."
Rhaedric exhaled, his muscles still tense. His heart pounded in his chest, but not from fear. From something else.
For the first time since he had lost everything, he felt something other than helplessness. He had won—if only for a moment.
Garran clapped him on the shoulder. "That's enough for today. We've got work to do."
Rhaedric frowned. "Work?"
The mercenary grinned. "You want to stay here? Then you pull your weight. Come on."
The rest of the day was spent learning things that Rhaedric had never thought he'd need to know. How to set snares for rabbits. How to recognize tracks in the snow. How to cut firewood without ruining the axe blade.
Garran worked him hard. Harder than Rhaedric had ever been pushed before. But he never once complained.
Because with every cut of the axe, with every lesson learned, he was building something.
A future. A purpose.
By nightfall, he was exhausted, but the good kind of exhausted. His arms burned from the day's work, his legs ached, but he felt stronger than he had the day before.
As he sat by the fire that evening, Garran leaned back in his chair, studying him. "You're tougher than you look."
Rhaedric met his gaze. "I have to be."
Garran nodded slowly, as if weighing something in his mind. Then he reached into his pack and tossed something onto the table. A bundle of cloth.
Rhaedric hesitated before unwrapping it. Inside was a simple leather vest, padded for warmth. Sturdy. Worn, but well-made.
"It'll fit you soon enough," Garran said. "You keep working like this, you'll grow into it."