Wads had thought the first week was brutal.
He was wrong.
If week one had been about pushing through pain, week two was about layering it.
Now, every morning before the sun had even brushed the academy walls, he ran.
Not a jog. Not a stroll.
A run that scorched his lungs and set his calves on fire, loops around the courtyard until the eastern sky paled to blue.
When the Physical training was done, he moved to Diety practice — the quiet, precise work of channeling and controlling energy. It required stillness, focus, and patience he didn't always have. Some mornings he failed outright, the energy dissipating in a flicker of heatless light. He'd grit his teeth, start over, and keep going until the bells rang for breakfast.
---
Day Ten
His body had already begun to feel like someone else's.
Hands calloused from the wooden sword. Knees sore from endless squats and lunges. Shoulders heavy from the strain of holding stances for minutes at a time.
During lectures, his posture was straight at first… but the weight of his own exhaustion pressed on him. His pen strokes grew slower.
That afternoon, in an echoing classroom lit by the pale wash of daylight, his eyelids finally betrayed him.
He had meant to only blink. Just a second.
But the warmth of the sun spilling through the window, the steady drone of the instructor's voice, the soreness in every muscle… pulled him under.
From the seat two rows ahead, Reiyell noticed.
She didn't look for long — just a brief glance over her shoulder. His head tilted slightly, chin dipping toward his chest, the faintest shadow under his eyes from sleepless nights.
Her lips curved, but she said nothing.
Admiration wasn't something she voiced easily, but she thought of the way he'd been in the yard before dawn… and the way he still showed up to class, stubborn as ever.
When the instructor called on him unexpectedly, Wads jerked awake. He answered, voice hoarse but accurate. No one laughed.
---
Day Twelve
He pushed harder.
Physical training bled into Diety exercises, which bled into sparring, which bled into lectures, which bled into late-night studying.
Some nights Keiya told him flatly to stop pacing the dorm and go to bed before he made himself collapse. He didn't listen.
The Physical routines built muscle but also pain — the kind that made him wince when sitting down, the kind that made lifting his arm feel like carrying a brick. The Diety work left a different fatigue: a sharp ache behind his eyes, a dizzy emptiness in his chest if he overreached.
---
Day Fourteen
The second week ended in rain again.
He trained anyway, feet splashing through puddles, hands numb, energy sputtering at the edges. His clothes stuck to him, hair plastered to his forehead.
Keiya watched from the dorm window, book half-forgotten in her lap. She didn't call him in. She didn't tell him to stop.
And somewhere across the courtyard, Liora passed by, catching sight of him for the second time in as many weeks — and again, she kept walking, her gaze lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary.
That night, Wads fell asleep at his desk, cheek pressed to his notes, a faint smear of ink across his skin. His training had not yet made him the fighter he wanted to be.
But the quiet eyes that noticed — even if they never spoke — were proof that his effort was no longer invisible.