Chapter 2: First Steps to Discipline
Dawn came cold and gray, seeping through the shutters like dirty water.
I was already awake. Had been for an hour, lying on the straw pallet, cataloging every ache in this borrowed body. Shoulder still tender from yesterday's crash. Legs tight with the ghost of a hangover that wasn't really mine. Stomach empty and gnawing.
The old Ulf would've rolled over, found a bottle, drunk until the pain went away.
Not today.
I pushed myself up, ignoring the protest from my muscles, and stepped outside. The streets were quiet this early, just a few souls stumbling home from night shifts or night crimes. Perfect.
I started running.
The docks stretched along Blackwater Bay like a crooked spine, warehouses and piers jutting out into dark water. I'd chosen this route deliberately—long, flat, away from crowds. Less chance of someone stopping me to ask what the fuck Ulf the Drunk was doing jogging like a madman.
My form was shit. I knew that within the first hundred meters. This body had strength buried under neglect, but no conditioning. No rhythm. I sucked air through my teeth, legs already burning, and pushed through it.
One foot. Then the other. Just like boot camp.
But this wasn't boot camp. My body wasn't twenty-two and Marine-trained. It was thirty-five and pickled in cheap ale. By the quarter-mile mark, my lungs screamed. By half a mile, I was seeing spots.
I made it to an alley between two warehouses before my stomach revolted.
I bent double, hands on my knees, and vomited. Nothing but bile and whatever rot had been sitting in Ulf's gut. It burned coming up, left my throat raw.
"Seven hells, Ulf. You dying?"
I turned, still gasping. A dockworker stood at the alley's mouth—Maron, my borrowed memories supplied. Mid-thirties, broad-shouldered, perpetually sunburned. One of Ulf's drinking companions. Not a friend, exactly. Just someone who'd shared a table when both were too drunk to care.
"No," I managed, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Just running."
"Running." Maron's face twisted in confusion. "Why?"
Good question. Ulf the Drunk didn't run. Ulf the Drunk barely walked in a straight line.
I needed a lie. Something that fit.
"Had a vision," I said, straightening up. "From the gods. Nearly drowned in the Blackwater three nights back. Was drunk, fell off a pier. Someone pulled me out, but I saw... I saw my mother's face. Dead twenty years, and there she was, telling me I was wasting my life."
Maron's expression shifted from confusion to discomfort. Nobody wanted to talk about gods or visions this early. But it was believable. Crazy enough to explain the behavioral change, common enough that he couldn't dismiss it.
"Right," he said slowly. "Your mother. Well. Suppose that'd shake a man."
"Yeah."
He lingered a moment longer, then shook his head and walked away, muttering something about "touched in the head."
I waited until he was gone, then bent over and dry-heaved again. Nothing left to come up.
This body is pathetic.
But it would get better. It had to.
I forced myself upright and started walking back toward Flea Bottom. Running was done for today. I'd pushed as far as this wreck of a body could handle.
Tomorrow, I'd push farther.
I found an abandoned warehouse near the docks an hour later, after stealing a hunk of bread from an inattentive baker. The building leaned like a drunk, half its roof missing, but the floor was solid enough. And more importantly: empty.
Time to test the weight manipulation properly.
I stood in the center of the space, bread forgotten in my pocket, and focused inward. The sensation from yesterday returned—that awareness of my own mass, like a dial I could turn.
I pushed mentally, trying to make myself heavier.
The shift was immediate. My body felt denser, compressed. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath my feet, groaning under increased pressure. I glanced down. My boots had sunk slightly, leaving indentations in the old wood.
How heavy am I right now?
No way to know for certain. But if I had to guess—maybe five hundred kilograms. Half a ton. Enough to crack wood, but not shatter it.
I held the weight for ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.
Then the dizziness hit. The world tilted sideways. I released the mental pressure immediately, weight snapping back to normal, and staggered.
Note to self: extended use causes vertigo. Probably worsens with heavier weights.
I waited for my head to clear, then tried the opposite.
Making myself lighter felt different. Like releasing a held breath. I pushed mentally in the other direction, and suddenly gravity had less claim on me. I felt... not weightless, but close. A breeze from the broken roof ruffled my hair and nearly knocked me sideways.
I stomped. My foot hit the floor with barely any sound. Tried jumping. Went higher than I should have, landed softer than a cat.
Ten kilograms, maybe less.
This was useful. If I could control the transitions better, make them faster, I could—
The wind gusted again, stronger this time. I stumbled, weight too light to resist, and fell on my ass.
The embarrassment stung more than the impact.
Control. I need better control.
I spent the next hour experimenting. Light to heavy. Heavy to light. Trying to hit specific targets. Five hundred kilograms felt manageable. A thousand made the floor crack ominously. Anything above that, and I worried the whole warehouse would collapse.
On the light end, dropping below ten kilograms made me too vulnerable. A strong gust could blow me away. A shove could send me flying.
And the transitions still took three, four seconds. Too slow for combat. If I was fighting someone and needed to shift weight mid-swing, that delay could be fatal.
More training. Faster transitions. Muscle memory.
But it was progress. Real, tangible progress.
I left the warehouse as the sun climbed toward noon, legs unsteady from the weight shifts, and headed for the tavern where Ulf used to drink.
The Pissing Goat smelled like its name. Stale piss, staler ale, and something that might've been vomit or might've been someone's lunch. Hard to say.
I pushed through the door, squinting in the dim light. A handful of patrons hunched over tables, nursing drinks that'd probably kill a healthier man. The barkeep—a sour-faced woman named Greta—looked up and scowled.
"Ulf. Thought you were dead."
"Not yet."
"Pity."
I ignored her and spotted them in the corner: Maron, Pate, and Jeyne. My—Ulf's—former drinking companions. Maron I'd already seen. Pate was older, balding, with the cynical eyes of a man who'd stopped believing in anything decades ago. Jeyne was younger, maybe late twenties, with a tavern worker's hard edges and a mouth that never stopped moving.
They all looked up as I approached.
"There he is," Jeyne said, voice sharp. "The gods-touched man himself."
I pulled out a chair and sat. "Maron told you."
"Course he did. You're acting queer, Ulf. Running around like a madman. Refusing drinks. What's wrong with you?"
"Told Maron already. Had a vision. Nearly died. Decided to change."
Pate snorted. "Change. Right. You'll be back to the bottle by week's end."
"Maybe," I said. "Maybe not."
They exchanged glances. Jeyne leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "You're serious. You actually think you're going to stop drinking."
"Yes."
More glances. Then Maron sighed and pushed his mug toward me. "Prove it. One drink. Just one. If you've really changed, you can handle one without falling back in."
A test. Of course.
I looked at the ale. It was piss-weak, the kind of swill that barely qualified as alcohol. Ulf's memories told me he'd drunk this by the gallon.
And I had adaptive poison resistance. Alcohol was just another toxin. I should be able to handle it without getting drunk.
Should.
I picked up the mug, raised it to my lips, and drank.
The taste was foul—bitter, sour, with an aftertaste like wet hay. I forced it down, watching their faces as I drained half the mug in one go.
Waited for the burn. The buzz. The loosening of my thoughts.
Nothing.
My poison resistance was already strong enough that this watered-down ale couldn't touch me. I felt nothing except mild disgust at the flavor.
I set the mug down. "Happy?"
Jeyne blinked. "You're not even swaying."
"Nope."
"Huh." Pate scratched his chin. "Maybe you have changed."
"Maybe."
We sat in awkward silence for a moment. Then Maron laughed, a short bark of sound. "Well, fuck me. The Drunkard's gone sober. Didn't think I'd live to see it."
"Don't call me that anymore," I said quietly.
"What, Drunkard?"
"Yeah. I'm not that person. Not anymore."
Another exchange of glances. Then Pate shrugged. "Alright. Ulf it is, then. Just Ulf."
"Just Ulf," I agreed.
Jeyne leaned back, arms crossed. "So what're you going to do now? You got a plan, or you just running around until you collapse?"
Good question.
"Find work," I said. "Real work. Need money if I'm going to eat."
"Docks are always hiring," Maron offered. "If you can haul cargo, Gavrel might take you on. He's the dock master down by the third pier."
"Gavrel hates me."
"Gavrel hates everyone. But he's desperate. Lost three workers last week to the flux. You show up sober and willing, he might hire you."
I nodded slowly. "I'll try tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Jeyne raised an eyebrow. "Why not today?"
"Because I can barely stand," I said honestly. "Ran myself into the ground this morning. Need to rest, eat something, try again tomorrow."
Pate chuckled. "At least you're not stupid about it."
We talked for another hour. Small things. Gossip. News from the docks. I let them carry the conversation, filing away details that might be useful later. Who was hiring. Which ships were in port. Where the Gold Cloaks were cracking down on thieves.
By the time I left, the sun was setting. My stomach growled, reminding me I'd only eaten that stolen bread all day. I needed food. Real food. But I had maybe four copper stars to my name—Ulf's entire fortune.
That would buy a bowl of stew. Maybe two, if I haggled.
Tomorrow, I'd find work. Build my body back up. Train harder. Get strong enough to matter.
But tonight, I just needed to survive.
I bought the stew from a street vendor—mystery meat, overcooked vegetables, but hot and filling—and carried it back to my hovel. Sat on the pallet, eating slowly, making it last.
When I finished, I lay back and stared at the ceiling.
My body ached everywhere. My shoulder throbbed. My legs felt like lead. But underneath the exhaustion, something else stirred.
Purpose.
I had years before the Dance began. Years to train, to build strength, to position myself. I knew what was coming. I knew who needed protecting.
Helaena. The children. Anyone caught in the crossfire when dragons started burning each other out of the sky.
I can change things. I can actually change things.
The thought should've been overwhelming. Instead, it felt like clarity.
I closed my eyes, letting sleep pull me under.
Tomorrow: work. Training. Building the foundation.
The Dance was coming.
But I'd be ready.
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