The dorm room was still dark when Wads opened his eyes.
No bell had rung. No one was awake yet. The air was cold enough to sting his nose, but he swung his legs over the bed anyway, the wooden floor biting at his bare feet.
From the other bed, Keiya stirred slightly, rolling to face the wall. She didn't say anything — she never did when he left this early — but her eyes were half-open, watching him through her lashes as he pulled on his training clothes.
---
Day One
The training yard was empty, save for the quiet scrape of his boots against the gravel. The sky was only a smear of pale gray. Wads set down a single, battered notebook beside the bench — every page filled with diagrams, sketches, and notes stolen from library books and late-night observations of dueling matches.
Push-ups until his arms trembled.
Sword drills until his wrists burned.
Balance exercises that made his calves feel like splintered wood.
By midday, he was drenched, the cheap cloth of his shirt clinging to him like a second skin. He returned to class smelling faintly of iron and sweat, hands raw enough that the quill's wood felt like sandpaper. But he still took notes. Still listened. Still watched the sharp students with sharper minds and told himself, I will catch up.
---
Day Three
The bruises started showing.
Purple blooms on his forearms from blocking strikes. A welt along his ribs where the practice pole had found a gap in his guard. He wore them like private medals.
At night, his dorm felt smaller. Lonelier.
Keiya sometimes read at her desk, flipping pages without comment, the faint scent of ink drifting through the room. Wads sat across from her, candlelight throwing shadows over pages of scrawled diagrams, replaying every mistake he'd made during sparring.
Too slow on the second parry.
Overextended on the lunge.
Feet too narrow — you'll be knocked flat.
It was exhausting, this quiet war against himself.
---
Day Five
Rain.
It would've been easy to skip.
The yard was slick, mud pooling in the depressions between cobblestones. The sky spat cold water in his eyes. His training shirt clung like lead.
But Wads didn't skip.
He trained until his fingers went numb. Until his wooden sword felt heavier than iron. Until every step squelched in his boots.
Later, by the dorm fireplace, he copied lecture notes with shaking hands. A droplet from his hair hit the ink and blurred the words, and for a dangerous moment, he wanted to throw the whole notebook into the flames. Instead, he kept writing.
---
Day Seven
The week had carved something into him. Not strength — not yet — but discipline.
He rose before dawn without thinking. Ate plain, cheap food because it fueled him better than buttery bread. Kept his uniform neat even when his body ached.
In sparring that day, he managed to land a clean strike on his opponent's shoulder. Just one. The kind that echoed, the kind that made the instructor pause for a fraction of a second.
That evening, he sat outside the dorm, notebook balanced on his knee, still practicing forms in the fading light. His shirt was clinging with sweat, and his breath came heavy, but he kept going.
He didn't notice Liora walking by on her way from the library. She slowed, watching him from a distance — the sloppy footwork, the raw determination, the way he muttered corrections to himself between swings.
For a moment, her expression softened. Then she turned, quietly continuing on her way.
Inside, Keiya was waiting with the window open, letting the evening breeze in. She glanced up when he entered, eyes flicking to his mud-streaked boots, then back to her book.
Wads lay down that night sore and exhausted.
Still not good enough — not yet.
But for the first time, he believed he could be.