Morning came without ceremony.
The camp did not wake all at once. It never did. One tent stirred, then another. Somewhere a man coughed. Somewhere else a woman called a child's name, her voice low and sharp. Smoke began to rise in thin, patient lines as fires were coaxed back to life.
Aren woke before the sun crested the hills.
He lay still for a moment, eyes open, listening.
Canvas shifted as the wind moved through the camp. Leather creaked. A horse stamped somewhere nearby. The smell of ash and old smoke lingered in the air, mixed with wool and oil and the faint sourness of animals kept too close to people.
'This is normal now,' he told himself.
That thought came every morning. Not in panic. Not in wonder. Just as a reminder.
He pushed himself up quietly so as not to wake his parents. Selene slept on her side, her breathing slow and even. Malik lay on his back, one arm folded over his chest, already half-awake if Aren had learned anything about him.
Aren slipped out of the bedding and dressed without sound. His clothes were laid out neatly where his mother had left them the night before—dark leather trousers, a simple tunic, soft boots. Well-made. Clean. Nothing extravagant, nothing poor.
Outside, the camp stretched farther than his eyes could follow.
Rows upon rows of tents, packed close together. Paths worn into the dirt by thousands of feet. Fires glowing dimly. People moving with the quiet confidence of routine.
This was not a village. It was a living thing.
Aren walked a short distance from the tent, to a space where the ground had been cleared. Others used it for practice sometimes—older boys, men who had time before duties pulled them elsewhere.
He picked up the wooden sword he had hidden behind a stack of spare leather.
It was crude. A straight length of wood, smoothed by his own hands and his father's knife. Weighted slightly at one end. No guard. No ornament.
Perfect.
He set his feet carefully.
Malik had shown him once. Just once. Not a lesson, not a lecture. Just a demonstration.
Stand like this. Hold it like this. Don't rush.
Aren raised the sword and brought it down in a simple arc.
Again.
Again.
The motion was slow. Controlled. He wasn't pretending to fight anyone. He wasn't imagining enemies. He was watching his own hands. His shoulders. His balance.
'This body is small,' he thought. 'That doesn't mean it's useless.'
Sweat gathered quickly, even in the cool morning air. His arms burned faintly. He ignored it. Pain wasn't something to chase or fear. It was information.
Behind him, fabric rustled.
"You're up early."
Aren turned.
Malik stood a few paces away, fastening his belt. His hair was pulled back, the gray strands catching the light. His expression was neutral, but his eyes were sharp, observant.
"I didn't wake you," Aren said.
"You didn't," Malik replied. "I wake early."
He watched Aren for a moment longer. The stance. The grip. The way the boy reset his feet after each swing.
"You're consistent," Malik said at last.
Aren nodded. Praise wasn't something he chased, but he stored it away.
"Don't lock your elbows," Malik added. "You'll regret it later."
Aren adjusted immediately.
Malik said nothing else. He didn't correct further. He didn't hover. He simply stayed, arms folded, until Aren finished his set and lowered the wooden sword.
"Enough for now," Malik said. "Eat."
They returned to the tent together.
Selene was awake now, sitting near the small fire, her hair tied back loosely. She looked up as they entered and smiled faintly.
"You'll wear yourself down before you're grown," she said, handing Aren a piece of flatbread.
"I'll grow anyway," Aren replied.
She snorted softly. "That's not how bodies work."
He ate quietly. Malik drank from a cup, eyes occasionally flicking to the tent entrance as people passed by.
A voice called out nearby.
"Elias! Don't run there—"
A boy's laughter followed, sharp and carefree.
Elias leaned into the tent opening a moment later, dark hair messy, eyes bright.
"Father," he said. Then, seeing Aren, he grinned. "You're already practicing again?"
Aren met his gaze evenly. "You're late."
Elias scoffed. "I was helping."
"Helping how?"
"By not getting in the way."
Selene clicked her tongue. "Wash your hands before you touch anything."
Elias obeyed, though not without exaggeration. He glanced at Aren again, studying him the way older brothers did when they weren't sure whether to tease or respect.
"You're serious lately," Elias said. "More than before."
Aren shrugged. "I like routine."
Elias laughed. "You're strange."
"That's not news," Malik said calmly.
The morning passed in small things.
Malik left to attend to matters of the tribe. Selene worked with other women nearby, mending, preparing food, talking in low voices that rose and fell with gossip and concern.
Aren stayed close.
Children played between the tents. Some chased each other. Some fought with sticks. Some cried until they were comforted or ignored.
Aren watched, not detached, but observant.
'Strength here isn't just muscle,' he thought. 'It's place. It's who listens when you speak.'
Later, Elias returned with a wooden practice blade of his own.
"Come on," he said. "Just once."
They faced each other in the dirt.
Elias was taller. Stronger. Faster. Aren knew this.
He also knew he didn't need to win.
They circled. Elias lunged clumsily. Aren stepped back, letting the blade pass.
"Stop dodging," Elias complained.
"Then stop swinging wide," Aren replied.
Elias froze, then scowled. "You talk too much."
They continued until Selene called them in for food.
That night, as Aren lay awake, the camp quieting around him, he stared at the canvas ceiling.
'I don't need miracles,' he thought. 'I need time. And discipline.'
Outside, the tribe breathed as one.
And Aren planned his mornings.