Elya’s small hands trembled as she gripped the wooden bucket, its weight pulling painfully at her blistered palms. The rough handle dug into her torn skin, the pain sharp and constant. She took a shuddering breath, steadying herself before lifting it once more. The water inside sloshed dangerously close to the rim, icy droplets spilling onto her wrists, sending chills up her arms. She clenched her teeth and adjusted her grip, planting her feet firmly on the cold stone floor. The staircase ahead loomed like a towering specter, winding endlessly into the dim recesses of the tower, its steps uneven and unyielding.

  The endless spiral steps had become her greatest adversary, a trial she faced every morning as the others watched. Each ascent was a battle, her legs quivering with fatigue before she even reached the midway point. The pails weighed her down, dragging at her slender frame, the shifting water an unpredictable burden that required careful balance. The iron bands around the buckets bit into her fingers, pressing against raw blisters that split further with every climb. She could feel the sticky warmth of blood seeping into her palm, but she ignored it. There was no choice. No reprieve. Only the next step, and the next, and the next.

  Her breath came in shallow pants, her ribs aching from the exertion. The stale air of the tower thickened the deeper she climbed, making every movement feel like trudging through mud. The flickering torches lining the stairwell cast long, shifting shadows, distorting the walls as if they, too, watched her struggle. Sweat clung to her back, trickling down her spine as she willed herself forward, one agonizing step at a time. Still, she pressed on. There was no choice.

  The other apprentices noticed her struggle, and not all were kind. Some sneered when she passed, their eyes flicking over her like she was something pathetic, something not meant to last. "Try not to spill it this time, little bird," one murmured, his voice dripping with mockery, watching as her arms trembled under the weight. Another smirked, not even lowering his voice as he turned to his companion. "She won’t last another week. Look at her, she can barely lift it. Might as well let the bucket carry her instead." A few chuckled, their amusement cutting through her like a blade, sharper than the raw pain in her hands.

  Elya swallowed against the lump forming in her throat. She told herself their words didn’t matter, that they were nothing more than noise to be ignored, but the sting settled deep in her chest, twisting there like a thorn. She kept her gaze forward, but the heat of humiliation crawled up her neck, burning at her ears. Every step she took felt heavier, the weight of their laughter pressing against her like a second burden she had no way to drop.

  The ache in her arms was nothing compared to the one in her heart, the quiet, unrelenting reminder that she was smaller, weaker, different. That to them, she was something fragile, something destined to break. The urge to scream, to throw the bucket down and run, clawed at her insides, but she smothered it. Crying would only confirm what they already believed. Instead, she forced herself forward, each step a defiance, each breath a refusal to be what they thought she was.

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  Elya heard them all, but she never responded. Words were wasted energy, and she had none to spare. Each insult, each sneer, she packed away like a stone in her pocket, weighing her down but never stopping her. Instead, she focused on something else,her steps. She counted them, each set of ten a victory in itself. "Ten more steps. Then ten more." The numbers became her shield, her rhythm, a silent rebellion against the ache in her limbs and the sting of their laughter.

  She wouldn’t let them get to her. She refused. They were waiting for her to falter, waiting for her to crumble under the weight. She could feel their eyes on her, judging, expecting weakness, and it burned in her chest, hotter than the fire in her aching muscles. She would not break. She would not give them the satisfaction.

  The bucket threatened to slip from her grasp, the iron band slick with sweat and blood, but she tightened her fingers, ignoring the fresh pain that lanced through her hands. "Just ten more," she whispered to herself, her voice lost in the dark stairwell.

  Her vision blurred at the edges, exhaustion creeping in, but she forced her feet forward. One step at a time. One breath at a time. Until there was no more room for doubt, only movement, only progress.

  Instead, she watched, studied. The stronger apprentices moved with a practiced efficiency, their movements precise, their breathing steady. They did not fight against the weight, they worked with it. She mimicked them, adjusting her grip, shifting the weight of the bucket to minimize the strain. Slowly, she learned to endure, to move with purpose rather than desperation.

  By the end of each day, exhaustion wrapped around her like a heavy shroud, dragging her limbs into an aching stillness. Every muscle in her body screamed, her fingers stiff and swollen, the raw skin of her palms pulsing with pain. Yet, even as her body begged for relief, her mind refused to surrender. She would not be the weakest. She would not fail.

  She lay staring at the ceiling, her breath uneven, willing herself to ignore the gnawing hunger in her stomach, the sharp sting of her blistered hands. She flexed her fingers slowly, feeling the sting of broken skin stretch with each small movement. It was a reminder of the battle she had fought that day,a battle against the weight, against the taunts, against herself.

  Tomorrow, she would climb again. Tomorrow, she would be stronger. The words repeated in her mind, not as a hope, but as a promise. A vow sealed in sweat and blood. They would not break her. They would not define her.

  But in the quiet of the dormitory, as she lay staring at the ceiling, another thought crept in, unwelcome and relentless. What would she be doing if she were home right now? The image came easily,her mother at the hearth, humming softly as she stirred the evening meal, the scent of warm bread filling the house. Her father would be mending the tools by the doorway, her brothers chasing each other outside, their laughter carrying through the open windows.

  She had chosen to come here, hadn’t she? The thought twisted uncomfortably in her chest. Or had the choice been made for her? She had wanted to be something more, to see the world beyond the fields and the market stalls, to touch the magic that had only been whispered about in her village. But was this what she had truly chosen? This pain, this exhaustion, this endless struggle? Would her father have sent her if he knew she would spend her days scrubbing floors and hauling water instead of learning the secrets of magic?

  She clenched her fists against the pain, pushing the thoughts away before they could fester. No. It didn’t matter. She was here. She had made her choice, and she would not go back. She would not break. She would not allow herself to wonder if the warmth of home would have been the kinder path. Morning would come too soon, and when it did, she would rise with it, ready to fight once more.