I dug into the food that Myrda had set in front of me with a gusto I did not know I possessed. Hunger overrode thought so completely that it felt less like eating and more like answering a command my body had been screaming for since the moment my core had settled. I tore into the rolls first, breaking them apart with my hands, crumbs scattering across the table and my lap, barely noticing the heat as steam escaped and brushed my fingers. Meat followed, rich and heavy, fibers pulling apart under my teeth, then eggs, soft and filling, then the banana, sweet and grounding in a way that made my hands shake as I ate it. There was no rhythm to it, no civility. I did not slow down. I barely breathed. My only awareness was the next bite, the next mouthful, the way each swallow dulled the ache just a little more.

  By the time I realized how much I had consumed, Myrda had already placed another plate in front of me, and then another after that, her movements efficient and unremarkable, as if feeding a child three times his size was simply part of her morning routine. I ate until the edges of my vision felt warm and distant, until the hollow inside me finally began to close.

  When I finally stopped, it was not because I was satisfied, but because I physically could not continue. I felt stuffed to the brim, stretched so full that it bordered on pain. My stomach was tight, my limbs heavy, and every part of me buzzed with the strange aftermath of having taken in far more than I thought possible. Heat radiated outward from my core, slow and steady, sinking into muscles that had been empty for too long.

  Myrda laughed softly, the sound warm rather than amused. “All right, Azolo,” she said. “That’s enough. You need to rest. Gain your energy back. The food will help, and rest will help too.”

  She glanced toward Greta, who was already gathering her gear, buckling straps and checking fastenings with practiced speed. “I’ll help him back,” Myrda added. “I promised I’d look after him today while you’re out.”

  Greta nodded once. “We’re taking on another quest. Nothing new.” Her gaze lingered on me, sharp but curious, as if she were measuring something she could not yet name. “Tomorrow we’ll start with a free period where you can begin the regimen you mentioned. Maybe you can enlighten us on what that looks like. You’re a unique case. I’ve never heard of a wizard following a physical regimen before, and I’d like to see what it entails.”

  I nodded in response, though the movement felt like lifting a weight twice the size of my head. My neck protested, my thoughts lagged behind the effort, and by the time they stood and began filing out with the other Iron Ranked adventurers, the room already felt quieter, as if something essential had left with them. The purposeful motion was gone, replaced by stillness.

  Myrda returned to my side without comment and lifted me without ceremony, cradling me as if I weighed nothing at all. The world blurred slightly as she carried me back through the halls, the warmth in my belly turning heavy and slow, sinking downward until my thoughts began to drift. Stone walls passed by. Light shifted. I focused on breathing and little else.

  She laid me gently onto my bed and adjusted the blankets with care, tucking them around me so that the lingering chill in my limbs could not reach too deep.

  “So,” she said, resting her hands on her hips, looking down at me, “Mr. Azolo. I wanted to talk to you about a few things, if you don’t mind, while you’re still awake.”

  I looked up at her, eyelids already drooping, my body teetering on the edge of sleep.

  “From what I can tell,” she continued, “you’re quite a master with a staff.” There was something knowing in her tone, not accusatory, but observant.

  I nodded slowly. “Every proper wizard should learn to use a staff as more than just a vehicle to hasten spells,” I said. “A staff is still wood and weight, balance and leverage. When the mana is gone, when the spells fail or the potions run dry, it should still be something you know how to move with. If you run out of mana, you shouldn’t be defenseless.”

  “That’s a good policy,” she replied. “Too bad most wizards convince themselves they’ll never run out of mana. They rely on potions and stop thinking past that.”

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  I shifted slightly against the mattress. “So why do you ask?”

  “I looked up your records,” she said. “They say you want to be a pugilist. But you’re already proficient with a weapon. Why not be a fighter and choose your staff?”

  I thought about the registrar’s office, about the cards laid out in front of me and how little sense they had made at the time, about choices made without full understanding. “Honestly,” I said, “I didn’t understand what the cards meant when I first saw them.”

  Myrda hummed quietly. “Fair enough. It’s not complicated once you know it. But are you sure that’s the path you want?”

  I stared at the ceiling, the stone above me steady and unmoving, thinking of futures I could barely grasp. “I don’t know where I belong yet,” I said. “Does it really matter that much?”

  “Oh, it matters,” she said easily. “There are trainers who will teach you martial forms that will astonish you. Archers who can teach you to shave a feather off a falcon without harming the bird.”

  I thought about what lay ahead of me, about the dangers I would eventually face, about battles that would not care what weapon I preferred. I knew I could become a grand master with a staff. It called to me, strongly. But fists had an appeal of their own. As long as I had my arms, I would never truly be unarmed.

  The thought made me chuckle softly. Armed with arms.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think I still want to be what you called it. A pugilist. I thought it was a monk at first.”

  “Monks have religious undertones,” she said. “They’re mana-based adventurers who mix prayer and martial combat. A pugilist is just a brawler.”

  “Then a brawler I shall be,” I said.

  I smiled up at her, the wide, unfocused grin of a three-year-old with far too much food in his system. The world tilted gently, my strength vanished all at once, and I fell back into the bed as the heaviness finally pulled me under.

  The food coma took me completely, slipping seamlessly into sleep so deep it might as well have been called a coma.

  When I woke, it was to the gentle rustling of leaves against my chest. The sound was soft and irregular, like a breeze passing through branches that were not really there. For a moment, I stayed very still, hovering between sleep and waking, unsure whether the sensation belonged to the world or to whatever dream I had been pulled out of. My breath was slow, heavy with rest, and my body felt warmer than it had in days.

  At first, I thought it was part of a dream, some leftover fragment of green and wind clinging to me as consciousness returned. Then I shifted slightly, testing the feeling, and the weight moved with me. That was what finally pulled me fully awake. Dreams did not have weight like that.

  I turned my head toward the sound and the pressure, eyes blinking as they adjusted to the dim light of the room. It was Meka’s bunny, the familiar made of leaves, curled comfortably atop my chest. Its body rose and fell faintly with my breathing, leaves brushing against my collarbone and throat as if it had decided, without question, that I was a perfectly acceptable place to rest. A few stray leaves tickled my chin, and I resisted the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it.

  Beyond the familiar, in the corner of the room, I saw Meka herself. She sat on a chair far too small for her, knees drawn in as much as her size allowed, hands folded together in her lap. She was trying very hard to take up as little space as possible, despite the fact that the chair looked like it might give up under her at any moment. When she noticed my eyes were open, her face brightened immediately, relief and excitement mixing in a way that was impossible to miss.

  “Greta said you’d be showing me things today,” she said softly, her voice careful, as if she did not want to startle me back into sleep. “She said it was okay for me to stay here and make sure you were all right while they went out on another quest.”

  I took a slow breath and let it out, checking in with my body as I did. The ache was still there, but it was duller now, pushed back by warmth and rest. My limbs felt heavy, but they responded when I asked them to. That alone felt like progress.

  I looked up at my apprentice and nodded. “Yes,” I said. “I think I’m feeling much better after that rest.”

  She smiled back at me, wide and gentle all at once, the kind of smile her people were known for, one that carried kindness without expectation. When she stood, the chair came with her, scraping loudly across the floor as it lifted several inches before she noticed. The sound echoed in the quiet room, far louder than she had intended.

  She froze, ears flattening slightly in embarrassment, then carefully eased herself free of it, lowering the chair back down with exaggerated care.

  “Sorry,” she murmured, her cheeks darkening as she avoided my eyes for a moment.

  She straightened, squared her shoulders, and looked at me expectantly, hands clasped in front of her as if bracing herself. “Okay, Instructor Runt,” she said. “What do we do now?”

  I exhaled slowly, the last of the sleep fog clearing from my head, and let my gaze drop to the leafy familiar still settled on my chest. It twitched slightly as if aware of the attention, but made no move to leave.

  I smiled despite myself. “Let’s go see what you can do now that you have a familiar,” I said.