The sun had barely begun its climb when Celeste stepped into the courtyard, the stone still cold beneath her boots. Mist hung low in the mountain air, curling like breath over the frost-bitten flagstones. Her breath came steady, visible in the early chill, as she rotated her shoulders and rolled her neck loose.

  This was how her days would begin from now on.

  “Stance,” Luke called from the edge of the yard.

  Celeste shifted her feet, knees bent, blade in hand. Her tunic clung to her frame with the weight of sweat, even though the morning had just begun. Luke paced around her like a hawk circling prey.

  “Draw.”

  She moved. The wooden blade snapped free from her hip and sliced forward. Sharp, direct, fast.

  “Again.”

  Again.

  Again.

  Each repetition burned into her bones. Her muscles ached. Her hands blistered beneath the bracers. But she didn’t stop.

  Onyx sprawled on the training wall above, kicking his legs idly. “You know, most people start with stretches or something.”

  Luke didn’t even glance his way. “She’s not most people.”

  By the time their father arrived, the sun had crested the eastern peak. Celeste was dripping sweat, her legs trembling faintly from the stances.

  He crossed his arms and watched in silence for a long moment.

  “You’ve already improved,” he said. “But let me tell you something most don’t bother with.”

  She paused, straightening up.

  “There are two ways to increase your stats,” Argo said. “Leveling up gives you stat points. That’s what most rely on. But there's another path.”

  She blinked. “There is?”

  “Natural progression. If you train your body enough and truly push it, your strength, dexterity, endurance… they’ll grow on their own. It takes time. Effort. Discipline. But if you commit, you’ll be stronger than anyone else at your level and beyond.”

  He stepped closer.

  “That’s how you become exceptional early. That’s how you build a foundation no one can shake.”

  Celeste nodded slowly, absorbing the words.

  “Don’t look at your status again until your training is complete,” he added. “You’ll feel the difference. You won’t need numbers to prove it.”

  She clenched her fist around the practice blade. “Yes, Father.”

  He nodded once. “Good.”

  Argo dropped a weighted pack at her feet.

  “Run the hill path. Full gear.”

  Celeste didn’t hesitate. She strapped on the harness, adjusted the straps, and took off.

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  The hill path circled the rear cliffs of the estate, winding through pine and stone with steep ascents and sharp turns. She pushed through the burn in her legs, the sting of cold air in her lungs, and the sharp jabs of pain in her shoulders. Every step reminded her why strength mattered. Why stamina mattered.

  When she returned, panting and flushed, her father handed her a water skin. “Again after breakfast.”

  And so it went.

  The routine solidified. Each day began before the first bell. She rose, stretched, drank herbal tonic, and ran the hill path twice. Then came weapon drills with Luke: blade, staff, polearm, dagger. Her body learned faster than her mind could explain. Her hands remembered techniques she had never been taught.

  On the second day, Argo introduced resistance drills, pushing against stationary weights, dragging sleds of stone, holding stances under pressure. Onyx joined in, teasing her until she knocked him on his back during a light spar. He stopped teasing after that.

  By the end of the week, Celeste’s hands were calloused, her knuckles raw. She could now hold a stance through freezing winds, sprint across the training yard with armor weighing her down, and break down her own mistakes without being told.

  The second week layered new challenges. Father increased the weight in her runs. Luke doubled the repetitions in her drills. She began sparring with twin daggers for speed practice and shifting between forms mid-bout. Her legs cramped at night, her arms shook in the morning, but she kept going.

  One morning, she stood in the sparring ring with both Luke and Onyx. They took turns pushing her with combinations. Luke’s were clean and methodical, Onyx’s quick and unpredictable. Celeste flowed between them, absorbing each style and carving her own in between.

  “Don’t overcommit to the draw,” Luke barked.

  “She doesn’t need to,” Onyx said between dodges. “She’s baiting us. Watch her footwork.”

  They were both right.

  By the third week, she began training with estate guards. The captain of the guard, Yorrik, led her through combat endurance drills while the others watched. She was given heavier weapons, broader shields, longer routes. Every part of her body screamed, but none of it stopped her.

  “Again,” Yorrik would growl. “Or do you want to be a flash in the pan?”

  She never answered with words, only with action.

  Meals were brief, just long enough to fill her stomach before her body demanded motion again. Sleep came hard and fast. Her dreams shifted from imagined battles to moments of stillness, watching snowfall in the courtyard, the warmth of her mother’s hands tending her bruises.

  She was growing not just stronger, but steadier.

  During the fourth week, father began incorporating more advanced drills. Celeste practiced disarming techniques, parry counters, and short-range grapples. She trained with blindfolds to heighten her perception. At night, she practiced forms in silence, her breathing the only sound in the room.

  Luna observed more often now, her gaze thoughtful. She never interrupted, only sent warm meals and clean linens, and sometimes sat beside Celeste at night, silently braiding her hair before bed.

  On the twenty-third day, Celeste ran the hill path three times without stopping.

  On the twenty-fourth, she broke a wooden sparring sword with a single counter strike.

  On the twenty-fifth, she knocked one of the senior guards to the ground and held a blade at his throat.

  By the end of week four, Celeste no longer asked when training would end. It was her rhythm. Her truth.

  She faced Luke, Onyx, and two knights in a final spar. It was uneven, unfair, and by design. She held her ground for three minutes before being disarmed.

  But she got back up, picked up her blade, and returned to stance.

  And when Argo called for a halt, his voice was quiet.

  “She’s ready.”

  That night, Celeste sat on the rooftop under the stars, legs dangling off the ledge, the frost not bothering her anymore. Her arms and legs ached, but the pain was familiar now. Welcome.

  Tomorrow, she would begin her magic training.

  She wondered who would guide her. Father? Mother? Or perhaps an instructor she hadn’t met yet, summoned from the capital by request. Would it be someone harsh like Yorrik, or quiet and strategic like Luke? Would they test her knowledge, or throw her into spell casting by instinct?

  She imagined the weight of mana in her palms, crackling along her skin. Imagined what it would feel like to call lightning not just in theory, but in force. To wrap her body in magic as she had wrapped it in muscle.

  The idea thrilled her.

  And something deep inside her stirred.

  The wind shifted. The sky darkened.

  Lightning flickered on the distant horizon.