Owen started waking up before the bell.
Not because he had to, but because his body told him to.
His mornings were split in two now. The corps saw only the second half.
Before sunrise, the woods took him apart.
Reinhardt didn't believe in warm-ups. He believed in consequences.
"Climb," he said, pointing at a tree with no branches for the first several feet.
Owen stared at it. "There's nowhere to grip."
Reinhardt shrugged. "Sounds like a you problem."
Owen failed. Slipped. Fell. Scraped his arms until they bled.
Reinhardt watched the whole time, chewing on dried meat. "You keep thinking strength starts at the arms. It doesn't. Starts here." He tapped Owen's temple. "Then here." He tapped his chest. "The rest follows when it feels like it."
Some days were silence. Others were stories.
Reinhardt talked about old campaigns, about comrades who laughed too loudly and died too quietly. He never glorified it. Never dramatized it. Just told it like it was people choosing to stand somewhere dangerous because it felt right.
Owen listened.
He didn't interrupt.
That was changing too.
At the training corps, people started noticing… inconsistencies.
Owen still lost some spars. Still got hit. Still bled.
But he didn't fold anymore.
When knocked down, he got up faster. When cornered, he didn't panic. His breathing stayed steady. His eyes stayed clear.
"You see that?" a squire whispered. "He didn't flinch."
Cedric saw it too.
Owen no longer avoided him.
Not in defiance. Not in challenge.
Just… indifference.
That irritated Cedric far more than fear ever did.
One afternoon, Reinhardt tossed Owen a waterskin and sat beside him on a rock overlooking the woods.
"You're filling out," Reinhardt said. "Not taller. Just… heavier."
Owen frowned. "I haven't gained weight."
"Didn't say weight," Reinhardt replied. "I said presence."
They sat in silence for a bit.
Then Reinhardt smirked. "Still no girl?"
Owen groaned. "Why do you care?"
"Because you're sixteen and look like you'd apologize to a tree for walking past it."
"I don't..."
Reinhardt raised a finger. "You do."
Owen sighed. "I just… don't know what to say."
"That's good," Reinhardt said seriously. "Means you won't lie."
"That's your advice?"
"No," Reinhardt grinned. "My advice is this, if you like someone, tell them. Worst case, they say no. That's survivable."
"You say that like rejection doesn't hurt."
"Oh it hurts," Reinhardt said quickly. "Deeply. I once wrote a poem. Terrible idea."
Owen blinked. "You wrote a poem?"
"Never again," Reinhardt said solemnly. "That's a sin even the gods won't forgive."
Owen laughed again.
It came easier now.
That night, alone in the barracks, Owen sat on his cot and stared at his hands.
They were rougher. Scarred. Real.
He thought back to the rain. To the question he'd asked the sky.
Something had changed since then.
Not the world.
Him.
He wasn't happy yet. But he wasn't empty either.
And for the first time, that felt like enough.
From the balcony above the yard, Baron Aldric watched Owen spar the next day.
"He stands straighter," Aldric said quietly.
Reinhardt sipped his wine. "I told you I have an eye for talent."
Aldric's eyes narrowed. "Yea but the problem is Cedric's watching him."
Reinhardt grinned. "That's good. It builds character."
"Or resentment."
Reinhardt's smile faded just a little. "Sometimes those are the same thing."
Below them, Owen disarmed another squire and offered a hand to help him up.
The squire hesitated.
Then took it.
Cedric who was still watching, turned away in disgust.