The morning cold bit Darwin's cheeks before he even opened his eyes. The wind slipped through the cracks of Grajisk's cabin, brushing against his face like a warning that today would be no different from yesterday—painful, exhausting, and necessary.
His back ached from sleeping on the hard wooden floor. His hands throbbed from yesterday's repeated strikes against the stump. His legs burned from the balance drills Grajisk made him do until the world tilted.
And still… he stood.
He had to.
Grajisk opened the cabin door and stepped out, wiping flour from his palms. "You're up earlier today." His voice was steady, casual, as if Darwin waking up before the sun wasn't impressive. "Good. We continue."
No praise.
But no disappointment, either.
Darwin followed him outside, stepping into the crisp morning air that filled the clearing. The training ground—flattened snow, broken stumps, and a scarred wooden post—waited silently for him.
"Start with stance work," Grajisk ordered. "Your right foot keeps drifting. Your body leans too much left. Fix that."
Darwin tried not to let his frustration show as he stepped into position. The imbalance of his body was something he felt every second: weight pulling left, spine refusing to center, hips shifting wrong. It wasn't something he could just "fix."
But he still tried.
Feet apart.
Knees slightly bent.
Sword held low.
He exhaled and adjusted his weight.
The moment he stabilized, Grajisk flicked a small pebble at his ankle.
"You fell again," the blacksmith said.
"I didn't fall."
"You might as well have. Reset."
Darwin reset.
Pebble.
Adjustment.
Pebble.
Adjust.
Pebble.
Again and again.
Grajisk wasn't cruel. If anything, he was too patient—watching Darwin with the same steady gaze a craftsman used when inspecting metal for impurities.
Darwin's left shoulder tightened as sweat formed on his forehead. "My body just doesn't stand straight," he muttered.
Grajisk snorted. "Then don't force it to."
Darwin blinked. "What?"
"Everyone wants a perfect stance," Grajisk said, leaning on the training post. "Balanced. Centered. Symmetrical." He tapped Darwin's shoulder with the handle of a hammer he always carried. "But you? You're not symmetrical. Not balanced. So stop trying to mimic what your body fights against."
Darwin looked down at his legs, unsure. "Then how do I stand?"
Grajisk took his sword and stabbed it into the snow. "You find the stance that fits *you*. Not the one that fits the world."
Darwin froze.
Something about that sentence echoed inside his chest.
*Find the stance that fits me…?*
He steadied his breath and closed his eyes. He wasn't thinking anymore. He was feeling.
His left side was heavier.
His right leg was more stable.
His hips tilted slightly.
His spine curved inward.
Most swordsmen would call this terrible form.
But when Darwin shifted into a stance that aligned with these flaws…
the tension in his body eased.
His breathing deepened.
His grip steadied.
His shoulders relaxed.
He opened his eyes.
Grajisk nodded once—just once, but it was enough. "Better. Now swing."
Darwin swung.
A curved, sweeping motion came naturally—his left-heavy stance naturally pulled the blade into a slight arc.
It felt fluid.
It felt natural.
It felt real.
Grajisk whistled softly. "There. That movement comes easier to you than any straight slash I've seen." He inspected Darwin with a craftsman's eye. "Your imbalance… it's not a curse. It's shaping your blade path."
Darwin lowered his sword, breathing hard. "But it's still sloppy."
"For now," Grajisk said. "But sloppy can become sharp. Broken can become strong. Some of the best weapons I forged started with cracks."
Darwin didn't reply.
He didn't know how to.
Something was stirring inside him—an idea