The second morning did not announce itself.
There was no clear moment when night ended and day began—only a gradual thinning of darkness, a soft paling of the mist that clung to the slopes like breath held too long. The mountains did not wake; they simply remained.
Aditya felt it before he opened his eyes.
A deep, dull ache threaded through his shoulders and calves—not sharp enough to force a groan, but persistent, insistent. He rolled slightly on the thin bedding and immediately regretted it.
"So this is how it's going to be," he muttered, voice rough.
Beside him, Sasi was already awake, sitting upright with his boots half-laced. His movements were slower than the day before—not careless, just deliberate. Each motion acknowledged resistance where there had once been none.
Aryan sat near the small window, watching mist slide past stone. His breathing was steady, but his posture had changed—subtly adjusted to ease strain along his spine. He had woken once in the night, not from pain, but from awareness, and had shifted without fully falling back asleep.
They dressed in silence.
Not because they were told to—but because conversation felt unnecessary.
Outside, the air remained cold, though less hostile than before. Or perhaps they had simply learned where to brace, how to tuck their collars tighter, how to breathe without flinching.
Rishi Vedananda waited where he always did.
He looked exactly the same.
That, Aditya noted with mild irritation, felt unfair.
"Good," the Rishi said after a brief glance. "You feel it."
Aditya frowned. "We look that obvious?"
"You move differently," Rishi replied. "Pain teaches the body where it was careless."
He turned and began walking toward the terrace without waiting for them.
They followed.
"The warm-up mirrored the day before—stretching, grounding, breath—but it no longer felt the same." Muscles resisted longer before yielding. Balance wavered a fraction of a second more than it should have.
And yet—
Aditya noticed something strange.
His feet found purchase faster. His stance corrected itself without conscious thought. When the wind cut across the terrace, he leaned instinctively—not fighting it, not cursing it.
Sasi's movements remained precise, but there was less stiffness now, less effort spent maintaining form. The mountain no longer felt like an intruder pressing against him; it was becoming a variable to account for, nothing more.
Aryan's adjustments were nearly invisible. He shifted weight before imbalance formed, breathed before strain accumulated. He was not stronger than the day before—but he was quieter.
"Again," Rishi said.
They repeated the sequence.
And again.
By the third repetition, sweat traced thin paths through dust on their skin despite the cold. Breath steamed. Fingers tingled.
Breakfast followed—unchanged. Dry bread. Nuts. Cold water.
This time, Aditya grimaced less.
"That's worrying," he muttered. "I think I'm getting used to this."
Sasi almost smiled.
The Root Chakra exercise returned, but Rishi altered the instruction.
"Today," he said, "you will hold less energy."
Aditya blinked. "Less?"
"Yes. Control precedes expansion."
Aditya crouched and focused, deliberately restraining the surge he had tried to force the day before. The spark appeared smaller—quieter—but it held.
The wind passed.
It did not go out.
He stared, surprised.
Sasi's flame was thinner than before, but unwavering. Aryan's presence remained subtle, yet the ground beneath him felt settled, as though it acknowledged his stance.
Rishi nodded once.
"Fatigue reveals truth," he said. "When strength fades, habit remains. Build good habits."
The agility drills followed.
Aditya still slipped—but he recovered faster, catching himself before the fall completed. Sasi misjudged once, then corrected mid-step. Aryan paused longer before crossing, reading the wind, then moved with quiet certainty.
No praise followed.
Only repetition.
By midday, the ache had deepened—not sharper, but broader, a constant companion rather than an intrusion. Lunch passed with few words, but without irritation.
"Your left foot turns out," Sasi said quietly to Aditya.
Aditya adjusted. "…Huh. It does."
Aryan listened, stored the observation away.
In the afternoon, Rishi spoke less.
He watched more.
When he corrected them, it was brief—a tap of the staff, a single word, a gesture. They began to anticipate the corrections before they came.
As the light softened toward evening, they stood once more at the terrace's edge.
The mountains looked the same.
They were not.
Aditya rested his hands on his hips, chest rising and falling steadily. He was tired—but not drained.
Sasi rolled his shoulders once, testing the ache, already mapping recovery.
Aryan closed his eyes briefly, committing the day's sensations to memory—not techniques, but the balance between effort and restraint.
Rishi spoke quietly.
"You will wake tomorrow tired again," he said. "And the day after. That does not mean you are failing."
He turned to face them.
"It means you are adapting."
No ceremony followed.
No reflection demanded.
They returned to their quarters as the mist thickened once more.
That night, Aditya fell asleep faster, ache and all.
Sasi slept lightly, body already learning its limits.
Aryan remained awake a little longer, listening to the mountain breathe around them—not as an adversary, not as a test.
But as a constant.
And slowly, unmistakably, they were learning how to live within it.