Morning light slanted through the shutters, pale and unhurried, washing the small room in uneven gold. Dust moved in the air like lazy motes of ash. The body stirred beneath the thin blanket—slow, deliberate, every motion weighed by its own caution. When he drew breath, his ribs lifted against the rough cloth; it was shallow but steady. The soreness remained, a quiet ache nested deep in the muscles, yet something within him recognized the ache as progress.
He sat up. The edge of the bed creaked in soft protest. His hand found the wall first, fingertips grazing the cool plaster. Balance trembled in the space between thought and body. His head bowed, breath held.
Cain:Steady the spine. Center the weight.
He exhaled, the sound barely more than a whisper.
Across the room, Mirella was already moving, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, as she folded linens into an uneven stack. She looked up when she heard the sound of his breath catch, and though she said nothing, her hands paused in mid-fold. A strand of hair slipped free and brushed her cheek. He did not look back; his focus was fixed on his own trembling knees, the strange dissonance of command and response.
He rose halfway before the strength gave out. The wall caught him. The breath that escaped carried a faint, frustrated laugh.
Henry:Still wobbly—give it time.
Aldric:Observe muscle coordination returning. Slight delay in neural feedback. Expected.
He drew another breath, slower this time, as though patience might settle into his bones if he gave it air to grow.
The second attempt held. His bare feet pressed into the cool boards, finding the ground's uneven rhythm. The body remembered fragments—the tilt of weight, the subtle counterbalance of arms. It was not grace, not yet, but it was motion reclaimed from stillness.
By the time he reached the doorway, the light had brightened. Mirella set aside her folded linens, trailing him with a glance but no word. Outside waited the morning chill and the faint smell of tilled earth. The fence cast long, slanted shadows across the packed ground, and a thin haze of mana shimmered above it, visible only when the sun caught it at the right angle.
He touched the post with a hand that trembled less than before.
Cain:Step. Pause. Balance.
The rhythm struck like a metronome inside his head—move, hold, breathe.
Henry:Hey, that almost looked athletic.
Aldric:Curious—mana resonance aligns with stride.
He took another step, then another, the air cool on his face, breath threading through his teeth. The body moved in jerks, but there was purpose now in the falter. Each footfall left the faintest mark in the dirt.
Cain:Again.Step. Pause. Balance.
A small voice carried from behind the fence. "You're out early," Lira said, skipping a pebble along the edge of the path. It rolled until it caught against the heel of his foot. She smiled, quick and unthinking, then stooped to pick it up. "You're walking better than yesterday."
He offered no answer beyond a small nod. The effort of speech seemed heavier than the act of standing.
"You want to play?" she asked, holding up two flat stones. "We can see how far you can go before one of these hits the line."
He watched her draw a rough line in the dirt with the toe of her shoe. Her confidence was the kind that did not demand approval; it simply filled the space. She placed one pebble in his open palm. "You start."
He tossed it. It landed just short of the line. She grinned. "Close! Try again."
He bent, retrieved it, and felt the strain ripple up his leg.
Henry:Kid's got coaching talent.
Cain:Use her rhythm to time the step.
Aldric:Emotional tether improves stability. Noted.
Her laughter came between his movements, a soft syncopation to the cadence of his breaths. When she stepped closer, showing him how to shift weight before the throw, he followed the motion, his balance adjusting with her. The pebble struck the line and rolled past it. She threw up her hands in triumph. "See? Easy."
The faint haze of mana stirred around the two of them, light enough to ripple the dust but not enough to be seen by anyone without the training. He felt it, though—the air humming faintly through his pulse, the resonance of her bright voice stitching itself into the slow rhythm of recovery.
From the doorway, Mirella watched. Her hands moved without command, twisting a damp cloth she had meant to hang. The sound of laughter reached her first; it broke the tension that had been building behind her ribs. The cloth tightened in her fingers until droplets ran down her wrist. Pride, she realized, was a strange companion to fear.
She hung the cloth and leaned against the frame. The boy's steps were clumsy but sure enough now that she did not flinch with each one. His face—Elias's face—held something lighter when he looked toward Lira, something almost like ordinary joy.
When he stumbled, Lira darted forward with a half-scolded "Careful!" and caught his arm. He steadied, nodded, and resumed.
Cain:Good correction. Maintain the line.
Henry:Not bad for someone who used to fall standing still.
Aldric:Motor stability approaching functional threshold.
The sun rose higher. They moved from fence to path, then back again, tracing lines in the dirt with their steps. The day's heat began to gather, carrying the smell of grain and distant smoke. Mirella called them in when shadows shortened and the air thickened.
Inside, the room had cooled slightly. Supper was served—bread, soup, and a jug of water. He ate slowly, each motion careful and deliberate. Lira spoke between mouthfuls about her own training, the chores she hated, the birds nesting under the eaves. Mirella listened more than she spoke, her gaze drifting often toward the boy's hands—how steadily they lifted the spoon now, how his shoulders no longer sagged under the weight of movement.
When the plates were cleared, the light outside had dimmed to amber. Lira waved from the gate, promising another game tomorrow. The boy raised a hand in return, the gesture small but sure. Mirella lingered by the table, drying her hands on a rag that had long lost its color.
The quiet returned with evening, settling into the corners like old dust. The boy's limbs ached with the fullness of use; his body knew exhaustion again, and it felt strangely human.
Aldric:Neural response approaching baseline.
Henry:Translation—he's walking without tripping.
Cain:Tomorrow, we add distance.
He smiled faintly, eyes half-closed against the soft hum in his ears. Outside, the wind turned through the grass, carrying with it the sound of laughter fading toward twilight.
The day ended as it had begun—with light filtering through the shutters, though now it was dusk, and the body, at last, rested without trembling.