Chapter 3

The dawn didn’t come gently; it arrived as a brutal kick to the bedframe.

Aoba’s eyes flung open, and the first thing she saw was Soren’s silhouette against the pale grey light filtering through the cabin’s single window. He’s already dressed, his boots on, his face grim.

“Up,” he commanded. There’s no “good morning,” no gentle prodding. Just the harsh, uncompromising order.

Every muscle in her body screamed in protest. The wound in her side felt like it was stuffed with hot coals. She tried to sit up, but a sharp, searing pain forced a gasp from her lips, and she fell back against the pillows.

Soren watched her as she struggled, his face a mask of cold indifference. “Pain is a weakness. Your body is telling you to stop. Your mind is going to tell it to shut up. Now get up.”

He didn’t offer a hand. He just stood there, a silent, imposing figure, waiting. Gritting her teeth so hard that Aoba thought they might crack, she rolled onto her good side and used her arms to push herself into a sitting position. The world spun, black spots dancing in her vision. Aoba breathed through the pain, shallow, ragged breaths that did little to help.

“Outside,” he said, turning and walking to the door without a backward glance.

With a groan, Aoba swung her legs over the side of the bed. The cold floorboards shocked her bare feet. She was wearing a simple, loose-fitting long linen shirt, her own clothes nowhere in sight. Every movement is agony. The stitches in her side pulled, a fresh, sharp reminder of her failure the day before. It took her what felt like an eternity, but she finally managed to stand, swaying unsteadily on her feet.

She stumbled to the door and pushed it open. The cool morning air hit her like a slap to the face. They’re in a small, secluded clearing, surrounded by a dense forest of towering pines. The air smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Soren was standing in the center of the clearing, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Your first lesson,” he said, his voice echoing in the quiet morning. “Endurance. We’re going to run.”

Aoba stared at him in disbelief. “I can’t ... my side ... Shoes. I’m barefoot.”

“You can,” he cut her off, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You will. Pain is temporary. Quitting is forever. We’ll start slow. A lap around the cabin. If you collapse, I’ll drag you. If you vomit, you’ll run through it. You will not stop until I say so. Now move.”

He pointed to a path that circled the small cabin. It didn’t look that long, but to Aoba, it might as well be a marathon. He wasn’t asking her to heal. He was asking her to break. This was his method: to push her past her limits, to shatter the weakness he saw in her, and forge something new from the pieces.

A bitter, defiant spark ignited in her chest. It was small, fragile, but it’s there. He wanted to break her? Fine. Let him do the work. Aoba gave him a sharp, humorless smile, a ghost of her old self. “If I fall, you’re the one who has to carry my dead weight back inside,” her voice still raw. “Sounds like more work for you.”

Soren’s expression didn’t change. “I’m stronger than I look,” he said simply. “Now run.”

Aoba pushed off, her first few steps a clumsy, shuffling agony. The wound in her side felt like it was tearing open with every stride. A sharp, hot pain lanced through her, stealing her breath. She ignored it, focusing on the path ahead, on the rhythm of her own ragged breathing.

One step.

Another.

The world narrowed to the dirt path, the trees, and the burning in her lungs and side. She wasn’t running; she was lurching forward, a marionette with its strings cut, held upright only by sheer spite. Aoba could hear Soren’s steady footsteps behind her, a constant, unnerving presence. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

She made it halfway around the cabin before her vision started to tunnel. The black spots returned, dancing at the edges of her sight. Her legs felt like lead weights, each lift a monumental effort. The pain in her side was no longer a sharp stab but a dull, crushing weight.

Then, her foot caught on a root.

She stumbled, pitching forward. She tried to catch herself, but her arms were too weak. She hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs in a whoosh. She stayed there, lying with her face pressed into the dirt and pine needles, her body trembling uncontrollably. She couldn’t get up. She couldn’t move.

She had failed.

Aoba waited for the rough hands to grab her, to haul her to her feet or drag her back to the cabin. But they didn’t come.

She heard Soren’s boots stop beside her. She braced herself for a kick, a harsh word, a sign of his frustration. Instead, she heard him crouch down.

“Get up,” he said, his voice quiet, but no less commanding.

“I ... can’t,” Aoba gasped, her face still in the dirt.

“You can,” he insisted. “You quit too easily. Your mind gave up before your body did. There’s a difference.”

Soren waited. The silence stretched, broken only by her desperate, wheezing breaths. She could feel his eyes on her, boring into the back of her skull. He wasn’t going to help her. He wasn’t going to drag her either. This was another test. He was waiting to see if she would quit for real, leaving her on the dirt.

Slowly, painfully, Aoba pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. Her arms shook with the effort. She spat out a mouthful of dirt. She looked up at him, her vision blurry with tears of pain and frustration.

Her body screamed in protest with every strain. Soren stood over her, a monolith of unyielding expectation. He was close. Too close. A surge of pure, spiteful rage, hot and sharp, cut through the pain. The only thing she had left.

With a guttural cry, she channeled every ounce of her remaining strength into her right arm. She swung her fist, not at his leg, not at his knee, but directly down onto the arch of his booted foot. It was a desperate, pathetic blow, but it’s all she got.