The days did stacked together.
Each one arrived with its own weight, settled onto my shoulders, and refused to move until I had earned the right to feel the next. Sleep did not erase them. Rest did not soften them. They remained etched into muscle memory, carved into bone.
Every morning—if the word still applied—began at 0100 hours.
The barracks were a graveyard of slow breathing and half-dreams when I slipped out. Lanterns along the path burned low, their Axiom-fed glow steady but weary, as if even light resented being awake at that hour. Frost clung to the ground in thin silver veins. Each step cracked softly beneath my boots, announcing my opposition of sleep.
The air before dawn was cruel.
It bit into my lungs, scraped my throat raw, and punished every inhale. My body protested out of habit now, not because it believed I would listen.
At the foot of the mountain, he waited.
General Ignis never arrived late.
Not once.
Rain slicked his cloak.
Snow dusted his shoulders.
Fog curled around his boots.
He stood unmoving through it all, as if the mountain itself had decided to wear armor.
"Again," he would say.
And I would move.
Steel first.
Always steel.
He drilled footwork until my calves screamed and my ankles burned from constant correction. When my balance faltered, he did not shout—he simply shifted. A sudden step. A turn I failed to read. A strike that forced me into the dirt.
"You think too much," Ignis said once as I scrambled back up.
The next exchange ended with my sword skidding across the frost.
"Then you think too little."
Again.
When my arms shook too badly to lift the blade, he made me switch stances. When my breath turned ragged, he forced me to slow—not stop, never stop—just enough to feel the mistake.
"When to attack matters," he said, circling me with predatory calm. "But knowing when not to matters more."
...Then came Axiom.
Not casting.
Listening.
Ignis could not use magic—but he could see it.
He stood close when I circulated Axiom through my body, his eyes following invisible currents I barely understood myself. His perception was unnerving. He noticed fluctuations before I felt them.
"Too fast," he said, tapping my forearm.
"Uneven."
"There—did you feel that?"
Sometimes he stopped me mid-flow, gripping my wrist with crushing strength.
"That surge," he said quietly. "That's where steel breaks. That's where spells collapse."
He taught me enchantment not as spellwork—but as discipline.
"A sword is honest," he told me. "If your Axiom lies, it will shatter."
I learned that lesson the hard way.
More than one blade screamed in protest before cracking apart in my hands. Metal failed violently when fed unstable Axiom. The sound—sharp and final—stayed with me long after the fragments cooled.
I never quit.
Even when my vision blurred. Even when my fingers refused to close. Even when my knees buckled and blood filled my mouth with iron.
Ignis never stopped me.
But he never let me die either.
—
By sunrise, I returned to the barracks looking like a corpse someone had forgotten to bury.
There were days—many days—when I collapsed the instant I crossed the threshold.
Once, I fainted face-first onto my bed.
I woke hours later to muffled laughter.
"He's breathing, right?"
"Barely."
"Should we poke him again?"
Something jabbed my cheek.
I groaned.
Someone placed bread on my chest like an offering to a fallen hero. Another added dried meat. A third bowed solemnly.
Captain Renia scolded them loudly—then quietly made sure I ate every bite.
"Fuel," she said, handing me broth. "You break, you eat. That's an order."
I ate.
Gods, I ate.
Meat. Bread. Broth. Anything the kitchens would allow. My body demanded it relentlessly, reshaping itself beneath constant strain. Muscle layered onto frame. My weight increased—not sluggish, but grounded. Every movement felt heavier… and more certain.
Then came the official training.
Axiom theory under Roseanne—where my notes grew denser and my failures fewer. Weapon drills under Ignis—publicly now, though his real lessons remained unspoken.
Exercises. Simulations. Repetition stacked upon repetition.
Pain became familiar. Fatigue became manageable. Control began to exist.
—
The first time I felt my Axiom obey me—
Truly obey—
I nearly cried.
It was small. A defensive weave no stronger than wind resistance. But it held. Clean. Stable. No backlash. No surge. No screaming metal or burning nerves.
Ignis watched from a distance.
He nodded once.
That was all.
—
The squad changed too.
Laughter came easier. Jokes replaced suspicion.
We learned each other's habits—who panicked under pressure, who fought best when angry, who needed reassurance they would never ask for. Captain Renia watched it all with quiet satisfaction, guiding without smothering, correcting without crushing.
One exercise—
We were flanked.
Another cadet corps unleashed a fire ball spell—too fast to dodge, too wide to escape.
I saw the moment my squad accepted it.
Eyes closed. Teeth clenched.
I stepped forward.
ᛋᚱ ᛉᚲ ᛗᚨ
(Serra Aegis Minor — Defensive Manifestation)
Axiom-bound barrier through stabilized resonance.
The shield bloomed like glass catching sunlight.
Fire struck it and dispersed.
Silence followed.
Then—
"Elrin!"
"You insane bastard!"
"That worked?!"
Captain Renia laughed openly, clapping my shoulder hard enough to hurt.
"Well done," she said. "About time you trusted yourself."
That night, we ate together.
Talked longer. Laughed louder.
Something solid formed between us.
Not trust yet.
But belonging.
—
Later, I sat on my bed.
Exhausted.
Satisfied.
On the wall beside me, chalk marks counted days.
Eight months.
Still ticking.
I stared at the moon through the narrow window.
"…How are you doing?" I whispered.
—
Elsewhere.
Under the same sky.
Yna stood in another barracks, hands clasped, eyes lifted to the moon.
Rooting for me—
Just as I was for her.
Separated.
Yet aligned.
Bound not by distance—
But by resolve.