Days blended into weeks. Dawn came like a relentless hammer, dragging Cael from fitful sleep into the cold stone courtyard. The torches that had flickered in the early morning were now nothing more than pale memories of warmth as he faced another day of training. Shadowspire did not pause, and neither could he.
The mornings began with conditioning—laps around the yard, weighted vest straps cutting into his shoulders, his legs trembling from fatigue and the burn of yesterday's drills. By the third week, Cael could no longer count the laps; they had become a rhythm of pain, breath, and repetition. Each step forced him to remember Elbhollow: the quiet river, the crooked fences, the smell of home. Those memories were knives, and he carried them with every step.
Weapon drills followed. Steel, wood, and iron became extensions of his body, or at least they would someday. Dummies made of hardened monster hide bore the marks of his frustration and exhaustion. Early on, he had swung wildly, letting hatred guide his movements. Now, he learned to temper it. Precision was harder than raw strength, and failure carved lessons into him deeper than bruises ever could.
Brenn and the others were relentless. Some were faster, some stronger, but all had already survived horrors similar to his own. They pushed Cael not out of cruelty, but because they understood what it meant to falter under pressure. "Focus," Brenn barked one afternoon, knocking Cael to the ground during a sparring drill. "Strength without control is death waiting to happen."
Cael scrambled up, tasting blood from a split lip. He wiped it away with the back of his sleeve, ignoring the sting. "I'm not going to die here," he muttered, mostly to himself. And for the first time in weeks, he didn't flinch at the thought of pain.
Evenings were worse. Meals were brief and functional; nights were spent in the barracks, muscles screaming in protest, joints aching from the repetitive strain. Sleep offered no reprieve. His dreams were haunted by the past, yet somewhere beneath that haze, he felt a shift—subtle, almost imperceptible. His body moved more efficiently, his swings carried more weight without extra effort, his stance steadied. The world did not forgive mistakes, and neither would he.
As weeks passed, the training became brutal. New routines were layered atop the old—hours of footwork, precise strikes, and endurance drills that left him staggering. Instructors monitored constantly, correcting his posture, his grip, his breathing. One day, they added live monster simulations: restrained, smaller predators released in controlled conditions. Cael learned quickly that hesitation was fatal. Every misstep was punished, every hesitation noted.
And yet, through the pain, the exhaustion, and the gnawing hunger for more, Cael began to adjust. He learned to anticipate attacks, to measure his swings, to channel his anger into controlled power rather than reckless force. He still carried the trauma of Elbhollow, still felt the hollowness of loss, but Shadowspire was shaping him into something that could survive beyond the shadow of grief.
Brenn watched quietly from time to time, sometimes offering advice, sometimes letting him figure it out. "You're stubborn," he said one evening, sweat soaking his shirt. "But stubbornness beats fear if you can survive long enough to temper it."
Cael said nothing. He didn't need to. Each day was proof. Each success, each narrow escape from exhaustion, was evidence that he was beginning to become what he needed to be.
By the end of the fourth week, his body bore the marks of training—bruises, callouses, and small scars—but his mind had begun to harden as well. The courtyard, once intimidating, now felt familiar, almost like an extension of himself. Shadowspire demanded strength, endurance, and focus, and Cael gave them all, piece by piece, day by day.
Pain remained constant. Hunger gnawed at him. Fatigue threatened to crush him at every turn. But beneath it all, a spark endured—a quiet, sharp determination. Cael would not allow himself to be broken. Not here. Not ever again.
The grind was far from over. Shadows of new drills, harsher instructors, and more dangerous exercises loomed on the horizon. Yet for the first time since Elbhollow fell, Cael felt something that had eluded him in the wreckage of his past: a glimmer of control. The monster outside the walls could wait. Inside Shadowspire, he was learning to become a hunter—no, a survivor—and one day, perhaps, something more.