The morning arrived, but not with the harsh, blinding light of the cave. Instead, it was with the flat, biting grey of a dry winter.
There was no snow in this region; snow fell a long way up north. There was just a brutal, creeping frost that turned the ground to iron and stripped the trees down to skeletal silhouettes. Gherm lay on his straw mattress for a long time, listening to the familiar sounds of the village waking up. The rhythmic thud of an axe biting into seasoned pine. The heavy stomping of Old Man Caeln's ox on the frozen dirt. The comforting, bubbling hiss of a heavy iron pot over the central hearth in the main room of their house.
He stared at his hands. He opened and closed his fists.
There was no magical hum, no glowing runes etched into his skin, and no sudden rush of wind. He didn't understand it. Whatever the schema had done before it burned itself out, it had left behind a profound, anchored settledness woven deep into the fibers of his muscles. It felt as though his bones had been replaced with cold iron overnight.
He threw off his heavy wool blanket and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. His boots, worn thin at the heels, sat perfectly aligned near the door. He slipped them on and stood up. The floorboards, which usually groaned under the weight of his mother or the frantic pacing of his sister, let out only the faintest whisper beneath his feet.
He reached down to his side. The small leather coin purse—his father's gift—hung securely from his belt loop. He brushed his fingers against it, feeling a strange disconnect. Inside that tiny space sat his bow, a dead man's pristine red belt, a heavy ruby necklace, and a stack of complex scribe papers. The weightlessness of it all felt like a mockery of the heavy things he had seen in the cave.
He walked over to the corner of the room where a large, iron-banded oak bucket sat full of water drawn from the village well. It was Gherm's morning chore to haul it in, a task that usually required him to brace his legs, wrap both arms around the rough wood, and drag it across the threshold in a series of breathless heaves.
He reached down with one hand, grasping the thick rope handle. He meant to just test the weight, to see if the fatigue of the previous two days had finally caught up with him.
He pulled upward. The bucket flew off the floor.
Water sloshed violently over the rim, splashing onto the floorboards and soaking the toes of his boots. Gherm froze, his heart hammering against his ribs in sheer bewilderment. He was holding the bucket, easily sixty pounds of water and solid oak, suspended in the air with a single arm. His bicep wasn't even straining. It felt as light as a handful of dry leaves.
"Gherm?"
The voice from the other room was sharp, edged with immediate panic.
"I'm fine!" Gherm called out, his voice cracking. He hastily lowered the bucket, trying to disguise the absolute lack of effort it took to set it down gently. He wiped the spilled water with the hem of his sleep shirt just as the heavy curtain separating his alcove from the main room was shoved aside.
His mother stood in the doorway. She looked worse than she had the day before. Deep, bruised shadows hung under her eyes, and her broad shoulders were drawn tight, defensive, and rigid. She had clearly not slept. She still wore the same ash-stained tunic from the search party, and her hands were coated in a fine layer of flour and dirt.
Her eyes darted around the small space, instantly assessing the spilled water, the bucket, and then Gherm's uninjured frame. She let out a breath that was entirely too shaky for a woman of her size.
"The bucket slipped," Gherm lied quickly, kicking a stray piece of straw over the puddle. "My hands were cold."
Strangely enough, his mother didn't scold him for the mess. Instead, she crossed the room in two massive strides, fell to one knee, and grabbed him by the shoulders. Her massive hands squeezed him, hard, as if she needed the tactile proof that he was solid.
"Wash your face," she whispered, her voice rough and hollow. "Breakfast is ready."
She lingered for a second longer, her thumb brushing over his collarbone, before she forced herself to stand and retreat to the hearth.
Gherm splashed the freezing water on his face, the shock doing nothing to dull the strange, quiet power humming in his blood. He dried off and walked into the main room.
The house was small, built of heavy logs and packed earth, designed to keep the brutal dry winters out and the heat of the central hearth in. It smelled of dried herbs hanging from the rafters, woodsmoke, and roasting meat. They were a village with no coin, entirely cut off from the roads of civilization, but the forest and the soil provided.
His elder sister was already sitting at the heavy wooden table, meticulously repairing the fletching on a hunting arrow. She didn't look up as Gherm sat down on the bench opposite her, but he saw the tension in her jaw. She was exhausted, too.
His mother brought over three large, mismatched clay bowls and set them down with a heavy clatter. A thick, rich steam rose from the bowls. It was a heavy stew of thick cuts of venison, roasted tubers, and wild onions, swimming in a dark, savory broth. Next to the bowls, she placed half a loaf of dense, crusty bread.
Gherm picked up his spoon, but before he could take a bite, his mother reached over and added two more massive chunks of meat from her own bowl into his.
"Eat," she commanded, her eyes locked onto his face.
She wasn't starving herself—she had plenty left in her bowl—but she was hovering. She watched his jaw work, watched him swallow, hyper-fixated on the mechanics of his survival. If he coughed, she flinched. If he paused between bites, her grip tightened on her spoon. It was a suffocating, desperate kind of love.
His sister watched this silent exchange for a moment before picking up her own spoon. She ate methodically, her dark eyes shifting between their mother and Gherm. When their mother finally stood up, claiming she needed to fetch more firewood to keep the hearth blazing, the silence in the room stretched tight.
The moment the heavy wooden door clicked shut behind her, his sister set her spoon down.
"Lift your shirt," she ordered softly.
Gherm froze. "What?"