Ronan did not soften. That was the first truth I learned, the one I repeated to myself when my hands trembled and my ribs screamed and my mouth tasted like copper and exhaustion.
He started at dawn. Lyra left with him that first morning to check distant traps, but he returned before full light broke through the pines and grabbed my elbow like I might vanish if he didn't anchor me to reality.
"Move," he said, and I moved.
The tasks were deceptively simple: split wood, haul water from the frozen creek, check snares, run the mountain ridges until my legs turned to lead. Simple on paper. In practice they tore me apart piece by piece. He timed my axe swings, watched my stance with predator focus, and interrupted with single words when I did something wrong.
"Again."
"Wrong."
"Slower."
He favored quiet corrections at first. Rage came later, in sharp orders that left no room for argument or excuses.