Chapter 39

  Over three hundred deaths now.

  Francis woke to the familiar sound of the morning bell and the even more familiar sensation of phantom pain where an Ursaloth's claws had torn through his ribs. He stared at the ceiling of the barracks, letting the memory of that death settle into the growing collection he carried with him.

  "You're doing it again," Michael muttered from the next bed over. "That thing where you wake up and just stare at nothing."

  "Just thinking," Francis replied, sitting up and beginning the routine of getting dressed. The words were automatic now, a deflection he'd perfected over hundreds of loops.

  "About what?"

  "Training," Francis said, which was true enough. He was thinking about the axe work he'd been doing with the barbarians, about the way the weapon felt different in his hands now compared to when he'd first arrived at Tules. The balance was becoming intuitive, the weight an extension of his intent rather than a tool he wielded.

  Michael snorted and pulled on his boots. "You're always finding ways to avoid training."

  Francis smiled at that, because his brother had no idea how accurate that observation had once been. But now every loop was a chance to train, to improve, to push his skills higher. Anything else but training now was a rare treat between deaths.

  ---

  The training grounds were already occupied when Francis arrived. Three barbarian warriors stood in the center of the practice area, each one armed with different weapons. Francis recognized Vornak with his massive hammer, Harald with a pair of hand axes, and a third warrior he'd seen around camp but hadn't spoken with yet.

  "Southerner," Vornak called out when he spotted Francis. "You came early. Good. That means more time to beat some sense into you."

  "Or for me to surprise you again," Francis replied, moving to join them in the circle.

  Harald laughed at that, a sound like grinding stones. "Surprise us? You mean like when you face-planted in the snow yesterday after Vornak tapped you with his hammer?"

  "That wasn't a tap," Francis protested, though he was grinning despite himself. "That was attempted murder."

  "If I had attempted murder, you would know it," Vornak said seriously, though Francis caught the hint of amusement in the big man's eyes. "That was teaching. There is a difference."

  The third warrior stepped forward, a woman with braided dark hair and a scar that ran from her temple to her jaw. "I am Astrid," she said, her voice carrying the same accent as the others but with a harder edge to it. "Vornak says you are learning the axe. Show me."

  Francis hefted his practice weapon, feeling the familiar weight of it in his hands. Over the past weeks and dozens of deaths, he'd been working with Harald specifically on axe techniques. The weapon was different from a sword in fundamental ways—less about precision thrusts and more about momentum and positioning. Every swing had to count, had to be placed exactly where he intended.

  "What do you want to see?" Francis asked.

  "Everything," Astrid replied. "Show me your forms, your strikes, your footwork. Show me what the southerner has learned from our warriors."

  Francis began moving through the patterns Harald had drilled into him. Diagonal cuts and horizontal swings at varying heights follow basic overhead strikes. He demonstrated the way to shift his weight to generate more power, the way to recover quickly after a heavy swing, and the way to maintain balance even when fully committed to an attack.

  Astrid watched in silence, her expression unreadable. When Francis finished the circuit and lowered his axe, she nodded once.

  "Not terrible," she said, which from a barbarian warrior was apparently high praise. "Your foundation is solid, but you fight like someone who learned swordplay first. You are too cautious with your recovery, too worried about being open for a counterattack."

  "Because I am open for a counterattack," Francis said. "Every time I commit to a heavy swing, there's a window where I can't defend properly."

  "Yes," Astrid agreed. "And that is why the axe teaches you to make your attacks count. If you swing and miss, you deserve to be punished. If you swing and connect, your opponent should not have the opportunity to counter." She picked up a practice axe and stepped into the circle with him. "Again. This time, I will show you what I mean."

  They began slowly, Astrid demonstrating the difference between defensive axe work and aggressive commitment. She showed Francis how to read an opponent's stance, how to identify the moment when they were committed to their own attack and couldn't properly defend. She taught him to be patient, to wait for that opening rather than creating his own through speed and precision the way he would with a sword.

  "The axe is not subtle," she explained after Francis landed a particularly solid strike on her practice shield. "The axe is honest. It tells your opponent exactly what you intend to do, and then it does that thing with enough force that their knowledge doesn't matter."

  They worked through the morning, the other warriors occasionally offering advice or stepping in to spar with Francis themselves. Vornak's style was characterized by overwhelming power, as he used his hammer to create openings through sheer force. Harald favored a dual-axes approach, a whirlwind strategy that kept opponents constantly off-balance. Each warrior had something different to teach, and Francis absorbed it all with the desperate focus of someone who knew his life depended on mastering these lessons.

  A notification appeared after a particularly brutal exchange with Vornak.

  [Axe Increased - 35]

  Francis grinned despite the ache in his arms from blocking the big man's strikes. The skill was climbing steadily, each session pushing him closer to proficiency. He could feel the difference in how the weapon moved now, how his body anticipated the weight distribution and adjusted automatically.

  "You smile when you get hurt," Vornak observed, lowering his hammer. "That is either bravery or madness. I have not yet decided which."

  "Maybe both," Francis admitted, rolling his shoulder to work out the soreness.

  "Then you will fit well here," the big warrior said approvingly. "Madness and bravery are often the same thing in the north."

  They continued training until the afternoon sun began its descent. Francis's arms trembled from exhaustion, his breathing was heavy despite his enhanced Body stat, and sweat soaked through his furs despite the cold. But he felt good. Productive. Every exchange taught him something new, every correction refined his understanding of the weapon.

  "Enough for today," Astrid finally called, lowering her practice axe. "You have done well, southerner. Your dedication is clear, even if your technique still needs work."

  "High praise indeed," Harald said with a grin. "Astrid rarely admits when someone has potential."

  "I said he has dedication, not potential," Astrid corrected, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice. "Potential requires talent. Dedication only requires stubbornness."

  "I'll take what I can get," Francis said, setting down his practice weapon and flexing his tired hands.

  As the warriors began packing up their gear and heading back toward the main camp, Francis noticed Kerhi approaching from the direction of the forge. She moved with that same predatory grace he'd first noticed during their fight, every step deliberate and controlled.

  "The warriors say you train hard," she said when she reached him. "That you push yourself beyond what most would endure."

  "I have reasons," Francis replied carefully, not sure where this conversation was going.

  Kerhi tilted her head, studying him with those sharp eyes that seemed to see more than they should. "You said that before. That you fight to protect people you care about. But I watch you train, Southerner, and I see something more. You train like someone who has already failed, like someone trying to prevent a tragedy that has already happened."

  Francis felt his breath catch in his chest. She was getting too close to the truth, seeing patterns that shouldn't be visible to someone who didn't know about the loops.

  "Maybe I just want to be prepared," he said, keeping his voice neutral.

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  "Prepared for what?" Kerhi pressed. "You are far from your kingdom, training with weapons you did not know weeks ago, pushing yourself past exhaustion every day. What are you so afraid of failing to protect?"

  Francis was saved from having to answer by Tormund's arrival. The blacksmith approached from the forge, his expression curious as he glanced between Francis and Kerhi.

  "Am I interrupting something?" Tormund asked.

  "No," Francis said quickly, perhaps too quickly, based on the knowing look Tormund gave him. "Kerhi was just asking about my training."

  "Ah," Tormund said, and Francis could hear volumes in that single syllable. "Well, when you are finished with your conversation, the forge could use some attention. I have a new technique I want to show you."

  "I'll be there soon," Francis promised.

  Tormund nodded and headed back toward the forge, leaving Francis alone with Kerhi once more. The warrior woman watched him for a long moment, and Francis had the uncomfortable feeling that she was weighing something in her mind.

  "Tomorrow," she finally said. "I will join your training. If you truly wish to learn the axe, then I will teach you what I know. But in return, I want answers to my questions."

  "What questions?" Francis asked warily.

  "The ones you keep avoiding," Kerhi replied. "The ones about why you are really here, and what you are running from." She turned to leave, then paused and looked back over her shoulder. "Or perhaps what you are running toward. I have not yet decided which."

  She walked away before Francis could respond, leaving him standing in the training grounds with far more to think about than he'd anticipated. Kerhi was perceptive in ways that made her dangerous, not to his body but to his secrets. Every conversation with her felt like navigating a field of hidden traps, never quite sure when he'd step wrong and reveal too much.

  But if she could teach him more about the axe, if her training could push his skills higher and give him a better chance against the Ursaloths, then the risk might be worth it.

  Francis sighed and headed toward the forge, where Tormund was waiting. At least there, the conversations were about metalwork and technique, not uncomfortable questions about his motivations and fears.

  ---

  The forge was warm and familiar, a stark contrast to the cold training grounds. Tormund was already at work when Francis entered, shaping what looked like a spearhead with practiced efficiency.

  "She troubles you," Tormund observed without looking up from his work.

  "Kerhi asks too many questions," Francis admitted, moving to his usual anvil and selecting a piece of steel to work on.

  "Because she is smart," Tormund said. "And because she sees that you are different from other southerners who come here. Most who visit Tules are either merchants seeking trade or warriors seeking glory. You are neither of those things."

  "What am I then?" Francis asked, genuinely curious what the blacksmith had observed.

  Tormund was quiet for a moment, the only sound the steady ring of hammer on steel. When he finally spoke, his voice was thoughtful.

  "You are someone who has seen too much for your age," he said. "Someone who carries weight that should not yet be yours to bear. But you do not complain about it. You simply work, train, and prepare for whatever is coming."

  Francis felt something tighten in his chest at the accuracy of Tormund's observation. The blacksmith might not know about the loops, but he understood the burden they created.

  "Is that admirable or foolish?" Francis asked, heating his steel in the forge.

  "Both, probably," Tormund replied with a slight smile. "Most admirable things are also foolish when examined closely. True wisdom would be to lay down such burdens, to let someone else carry them. But that is not who you are."

  They worked in comfortable silence after that, the familiar rhythm of forge work providing a kind of meditation. Francis found himself thinking about Kerhi's words, about her observation that he trained like someone who had already failed. She was right, of course. Every death was a failure, every loop a chance to correct mistakes and prevent tragedies he'd already witnessed.

  But how could he explain that to someone who didn't understand the loops? How could he make her see that his obsession with improvement wasn't about ambition or glory, but about survival? About saving the people he cared about from fates he'd already watched them suffer?

  A notification appeared as Francis completed a particularly difficult piece.

  [ Blacksmithing Increased - 32 ]

  The skill was climbing more slowly now than it had in the beginning, each level requiring more practice and refinement. But that was fine. Progress was progress, no matter how incremental.

  "That is good work," Tormund said, examining the piece Francis had just finished. "You are starting to understand the metal, to feel what it needs rather than just following the steps. That is the difference between a craftsman and someone who merely knows the technique."

  "You've said that before," Francis noted.

  "Because it is worth repeating," Tormund replied. "Many warriors can swing a sword or fire an arrow. Far fewer truly understand the weapon they wield. The same is true of smithing. Anyone can heat metal and strike it. Only the best can make it sing."

  Francis looked at the piece he'd created, seeing what Tormund meant. It wasn't just technically correct anymore. There was a quality to it that went beyond mere competence, a subtle rightness that came from understanding rather than just executing steps.

  They continued working until the evening meal, when the sounds of the camp gathering for food drifted through the forge's walls. Francis set down his hammer, his arms aching pleasantly from the day's work.

  "Tomorrow, Kerhi will join my training," Francis said as they banked the forge fires.

  Tormund glanced at him, his expression knowing. "And you are worried about what she will ask you."

  "She sees too much," Francis admitted.

  "Then perhaps you should tell her the truth," Tormund suggested.

  Francis shook his head. "I can't. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

  "Then you will have to decide how much truth you can give her without revealing everything," Tormund said. "Kerhi is not someone who accepts half-answers easily. She will push until she understands, or until you convince her that some questions should not be asked."

  "Any advice on how to do that?" Francis asked.

  Tormund smiled. "You could try being less interesting. Stop training so obsessively, stop pushing yourself so hard, stop being mysterious and driven. Become ordinary, and she will lose interest."

  "That's not going to happen," Francis said.

  "I know," Tormund replied. "Which is why I suspect this will continue to be a problem for you. But that is not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes the people who challenge us most are the ones who help us grow."

  Francis thought about that as he left the forge and headed toward the main hall for dinner. Kerhi challenged him, pushed him to examine his motivations and methods in ways that were uncomfortable but necessary. Maybe that was exactly what he needed, even if it scared him.

  The evening meal was loud and boisterous, barbarians sharing stories and jokes over plates of roasted meat and root vegetables. Francis found himself sitting with some of the warriors he'd trained with earlier, listening to their tales of past hunts and battles.

  "Tomorrow," Vornak said between bites of food, "we hunt Ursaloths again. Three packs are going out. You should come, Southerner. Put that axe training to use."

  Francis felt his pulse quicken at the suggestion. Another chance to fight the beasts, another opportunity to push his skills higher and earn the levels he needed. But also another risk, another chance for death if he pushed too hard or made a mistake.

  "I'll be there," Francis said.

  "Good," Vornak rumbled. "We will see if you fight as well as you train."

  The conversation shifted to other topics, but Francis's mind was already on the next day. Training with Kerhi in the morning, then hunting Ursaloths in the afternoon. Another day of pushing himself to the limit, another set of opportunities to improve.

  He glanced across the hall and saw Kerhi sitting with a group of other warriors; her expression was animated as she told a story that had them all laughing. She caught his eye for a moment, and something passed between them—a challenge, maybe, or a promise. Whatever it was, it made Francis both nervous and excited for what tomorrow would bring.

  Death three hundred and fifty-one had been painful but educational. Tomorrow would bring death three hundred and fifty-two, or maybe three hundred and fifty-three if the Ursaloths proved particularly challenging. But that was fine. Each death was a lesson, each loop a chance to grow stronger.

  And with warriors like Kerhi and Tormund willing to help him, maybe he could finally push his skills high enough to make a real difference when it mattered most.

  The path was long and brutal, but Francis had never expected anything different. All that mattered was moving forward, one death at a time, one skill level at a time, until he became strong enough to protect everyone he cared about.

  Whatever it took.

  ?