Chapter 25: What Still Fits

  The rest day did not feel like rest anymore.

  Laurent woke later than usual, body heavy but stable, the dull soreness of training settled deep enough that it no longer demanded his attention. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling beams, listening to the academy breathe around him—footsteps in the distance, muted voices, the quiet rhythm of a place that never truly stopped.

  He stood without hesitation. That alone told him something had changed.

  He tried to picture herb gathering again. Not the work itself. The structure.

  One day out. At least two days in the forest. One day back. Four days, if nothing went wrong.

  He had one.

  Laurent stopped the thought there. No frustration. No denial. Just a clean conclusion.

  It didn’t fit anymore.

  Even if he asked for permission to miss training, it wouldn’t last. The academy wasn’t built for students who drifted in and out of schedule. It demanded presence—six days a week, without apology.

  Herb gathering had carried him this far.

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  That was enough.

  He counted his coins again that night.

  Once. Twice. One more month of tuition. Food, if he was careful. Nothing beyond that.

  A year was impossible.

  Not slowly. Not safely.

  He didn’t feel panic. What he felt was something more dangerous—a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before.

  His body was stronger now. Not powerful. Not trained for violence. But no longer fragile. No longer uncertain under load.

  That confidence made his next thoughts feel reasonable.

  Escort work. Supply runs. Group contracts.

  He listened more carefully when the topics came up now. Who took them. How often. What went wrong when they did.

  Bandits were rare near the capital.

  Wild animals were not.

  Most of the danger, people said, came from complacency.

  Laurent believed that.

  He went to the market in the afternoon. Not to browse. To buy one thing.

  The blacksmith’s stall smelled like heat and oil, metal laid out with the casual indifference of someone who worked with it every day. Laurent didn’t touch the polished blades. He went straight for the rack near the back.

  Short swords. Plain. Unremarkable. No ornamentation. No balance tricks. Just steel shaped to be held.

  The blacksmith watched him for a moment. “First weapon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Training?”

  “Yes.”

  The man nodded and handed him one without ceremony. The grip was worn smooth by other hands, the edge serviceable but not keen.

  It wasn’t meant to impress.

  Laurent weighed it once, then paid.

  He didn’t feel braver with it in his hand.

  He felt less foolish.

  That night, he lay awake longer than usual.

  His body felt ready in a way it hadn’t before. Denser. Quieter. The aches faded faster now, leaving behind something closer to resilience than pain.

  On Earth, the thought surfaced again, this would’ve been extraordinary.

  Here, it was preparation.

  Laurent turned onto his side, the cheap sword resting within reach.

  He hadn’t signed up for anything yet.

  Hadn’t committed.

  Hadn’t crossed the line between planning and action.

  But he knew he would.

  Not because he was desperate.

  Because staying where he was no longer made sense.

  And that, more than fear, was what finally pushed him forward.