I sit on the edge of the bed longer than I should.
My boots are off, sitting side by side on the floor with the toes pointing toward the door. Like they're ready to walk out without me. The room is quiet except for the building creaking as it settles for the night. I roll my shoulders again, slower this time. The tightness is still there. It never leaves all at once.
I lean forward and dig my thumbs into the muscle just below my collarbone. There's a knot there—been there for weeks now. I press down until the pain dulls into something I can manage, then stop before it gets sharp again. I know exactly where that line is.
The door swings open behind me. I don't bother turning around.
"You're back early," Jonric says.
"Same time as always," I tell him.
He makes a sound in his throat and steps inside, dropping his bag on the floor. I hear him stretch—his joints pop easily, like they've been waiting for the chance. He moves around the small room with the kind of comfort that comes from living somewhere long enough. When he drops onto his bed, the frame groans louder under his weight than it ever does under mine.
"Did you eat anything?" he asks.
"Not yet."
He lets out a long breath through his nose. "You need to eat, Raven."
"I will."
He doesn't push it. That's one of the things I actually like about Jonric. He figured out a long time ago which arguments go nowhere. But I can feel him staring at my back.
"You look worse than yesterday," he says after a minute.
I pause, then reach for the hem of my shirt. I pull it off slowly—not to prove anything, just because it's easier to breathe without it. The air feels cooler against my bare skin than I expected.
"I look the same," I say.
He doesn't answer right away. When he does speak, his voice is quieter than before. "You always say that, you know."
I stand up and walk to the basin, pouring water over my hands. The skin around my knuckles is cracked again, small red lines showing through. I flex my fingers and watch how long the stiffness takes to fade.
"I'm fine," I say.
Jonric snorts. "That's not even an answer."
I keep my back to him. If I turn around, he'll keep talking. If I don't, he'll drop it. Eventually.
"The foreman mentioned something today," he says, changing the subject. "Training slots opened up. Low-tier stuff. Nothing fancy."
My hands go still in the water.
"How many slots?" I ask.
"A few." He shrugs even though I'm not looking at him. I can hear it in his voice. "Enough that people are starting to talk about it."
I dry my hands on the rag and pull my shirt back on. The fabric catches on my shoulder for a second before sliding down. That's new. I make a mental note and move on.
"What's the cost?" I ask.
Jonric hesitates. Just for a second, but it's enough. "Time and coin. You know how it is."
I nod slowly. I do know. Everything costs time. Coin is just easier to measure.
"I'll think about it," I say.
He watches me for another moment, then lies back on his bed and stares at the ceiling. The conversation is over.
Later, after we've eaten some bread and dried meat, I lie on my back and stare at that same crack in the ceiling. It's still there, running from the corner toward the center, splitting and reconnecting like it can't make up its mind which way to go.
Training.
The word doesn't feel real yet. It's something other people do. Something with structure and rules and expectations that make sense. Something measured.
I roll onto my side and push myself up to sitting. My body fights me on it—not sharply, just with this dull reluctance, like it would really prefer if I didn't ask it to do anything else tonight.
I ignore it.
I stand, lace up my boots, and grab my cloak from the hook.
Jonric lifts his head off the pillow. "Where are you going?"
"Just walking," I say.
He studies me for a second, then nods once. "Don't stay out too late."
"I won't."
Outside, the air has cooled down considerably. The district smells different at night—less smoke, more damp stone and something earthy I can't quite name. I walk without rushing, letting my stride fall into an even rhythm. Each step sends information up through my legs. Not pain. Just data.
The training hall isn't far from here. I know where it is even though I've never had a reason to actually go inside. It's a squat stone building near the inner road, with lamps burning low outside the main entrance. When I get close enough to see it properly, I'm surprised by how many people are there.
I stop on the other side of the street and just watch.
Most of them are younger than me. Some are older. A few are already built in ways I never was—broad shoulders, thick arms, bodies that look like they were made for this kind of work. They stand around in loose groups, talking and laughing like they don't have a care in the world. A man in a worn leather jerkin moves between them, handing out slips of paper.
I don't cross the street right away.
I watch how they stand. How they shift their weight from foot to foot. How easy some of them make movement look. I compare it automatically to myself—to the way my shoulders slump forward, to the slight stiffness in my right knee when I've been standing too long.
Margins.
That's the word that comes to mind. The space between what I can do and what I can actually recover from. My margin has always been narrow. Smaller than most people's.
I take a breath and cross the street.
Up close, the building smells like old sweat and lamp oil. The man with the papers glances up as I approach. His eyes flick over me quickly—taking inventory—then move away like he's already decided something.
"Name?" he asks, not looking up from his clipboard.
"Raven Vale."
He scratches something down with a piece of charcoal. "What kind of work do you do?"
"Labor. Loading docks mostly."
He nods once, still writing. "Slots are limited. You miss even one day, you're out. No exceptions."
"I won't miss any," I say.
He looks up at me then. Really looks this time. His gaze lingers for a moment on my shoulders, then drops to my hands. I can see him cataloging the same things I catalog every morning.
"That's not something you can promise," he says quietly.
"I know," I admit. "But I'm saying it anyway."
Something shifts in his expression—not quite approval, but maybe recognition. He holds out a slip of paper. There's a time written on it. A date. Three days from now.
"Be early," he says, already turning to the next person. "Not on time. Early."
I step back outside and fold the paper carefully before tucking it into my pocket. The night feels different now—heavier somehow, like it's pressing down on me instead of just surrounding me.
On the walk back home, I adjust my stride without thinking about it. Shorter steps. Less impact on the right knee. It costs me time, makes the walk take longer. I don't know yet if it buys me anything that matters.
When I reach our door, I stop with my hand on the latch.
Training won't fix me. I understand that. It won't make my body into something it's not. But structure might show me where the losses actually happen. Where all that effort goes when it just disappears into nothing.
Maybe that's enough of a reason.
I push the door open and step inside.
Tomorrow, the margins get a little smaller.
I close the door behind me and don't bother turning on the lamp. In the darkness, I can still see that crack in the ceiling, splitting and reconnecting, going nowhere and everywhere at once.