The next few weeks blur together, each day beginning the same way.

  Dawn. I wake to aching bones and stiff muscles, still tender from the day before. The moment I step into the training room, Zaenith strikes without warning. My wounds are reopened, my bruises deepen. Her strikes are merciless and always deliberately painful. We train with the club, swords, axes, even spears. Any practical weapon I might be using in the future, Zaenith ensures I have a sufficient mastery of. The skill-set of the former three translate decently well to one another, however the spear... takes quite a bit of getting used to. I often find myself the bloodiest when she has me wielding that particular weapon, her own personal favorite. Thanks to her potions I heal fast, and faster every day. But the pain is always there.

  Afternoons are quieter, but no less grueling. I return to the scroll. Even just looking at it is a trial, the twisting symbols causing my head to pulse and throb. The symbols are still without context, but the patterns they're arranged in do seem meaningful, something I can recognize at least. They still elicit no effect, other than sparking strange dreams after the throbbing in my brain finally causes me to faint. Sometimes I wake gasping, hands glowing faintly.

  By evening, I can barely stand. My hands tremble as I crush dried roots and grind bone-dust into simmering tinctures, the scent of iron and smoke clinging to my skin. The process, stirring, pouring, memorizing the recipe, becomes a sort of rhythm, almost meditative. After the brutality of the morning and the madness of the scroll, it's the one part of the day that feels normal. Honest work with results I can see. In truth, it's my favorite part of the day. Rose would be happy.

  And then finally, each night, before I collapse, I down one of Zaenith's secret potions, the Potion of the GIant. The liquid tastes of ash and copper, thick as blood. It burns all the way down, and every muscle screams in protest as it works. My skin tightens, my bones stretch. Some nights I cry out. Others, I simply black out.

  By the end of the third week, my reflection has perhaps changed marginally. My back a little broader, arms a little thicker, but honestly it could just be my imagination. I feel a sharper though, the constant study has been good at helping me organise my thoughts. So there's that at least.

  Still, it's been an overall miserable experience.

  "Ugh..." I collapse on the mostly empty bar in front of Osric, who’s counting a small pile of coppers.

  "You look like a dog dragged through a hedge backwards," he mutters, not even looking up. "You need to rest, lad."

  "Tell that to Zaenith," I grumble.

  He snorts. "Not talking to that woman unless I have to."

  I shift slightly, wincing. "So, have I missed anything? What news good tavern-keeper.”

  Osric chuckles. "Nothin’ much lad. Preparations for the festival have kept us busy, but I doubt you want to hear the complaints of the local carpenters or weavers." Osric gives me a pat on the shoulder. “But on the bright side, when it’s finally here you can take the chance to enjoy yourself. You are attending, aren’t you?”

  I sigh, rubbing my face. “Zaenith said we’ll be working. Supposedly I’m to brew and mix the medicines she’ll be selling on the day, so that’ll take most of my morning. And then in the afternoon I’m to attend to the tournament’s wounded. Good experience according to her.”

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  Osric laughs. “A proper herbsman now, aren’tcha?”

  I shrug, taking a drink. “Good enough to handle some bruises and a broken bone or two. Nothing really complicated about it.”

  Osric puts his coins down and leans over the bar. “I’ll tell you what you should do. Enter that tournament yourself. There’s a nice prize for the winner, and I’d put a few coppers on a big man like you, given what you did to those brigands. Go on, it’ll be fun.”

  “Hmm, maybe.”

  I drain what’s left of my mug, letting the booze wash away the pain. “Got any spare food? I’ll be visiting William and Hamza later.”

  Osric frowns, turning back to his coins. "You still looking after those convicts?”

  I sigh again. "No one else is going to. The hell is the mayor saving them for? Is he just hoping they starve so he can forget about them?”

  Osric shrugs. "Busy dealing with brigands and planning for the festival. No one’s got time for a couple of convicts."

  I scowl. "Not exactly fair, is it? How long would it take him to just hear them out?"

  Osric lets out a sigh. "Who’s to say? Maybe you’ve got the right of it. But they wouldn’t be the first to starve in that gaolhouse. I’ll give you a loaf of bread."

  I nod in thanks. "And get me another ale too.”

  He grabs a mug from under the bar. "Hmph. Just don’t go spewin’ on me counter."

  Elsie pushes through the tavern doors and greets me with a bright smile. "Mornin', Seven! You look like death chewed you up and spit you out. Rough day?"

  She moves to help her father behind the bar, humming softly. As she wipes down a few mugs, she glances over. "Festival’s comin’ up soon. You excited?"

  I just groan in response, faceplanting into the counter.

  She blinks, then looks to Osric. "What's wrong with him?"

  Osric grunts. "Man business."

  Osric places the filled mug in front of me, and I drain it in one go. "Listen lad, I can admire someone tryin' to do right, better 'emselves, sure enough.” He says, taking the empty mug from me. ”Learnin’ a trade, earnin’ yer keep, helping those two, that’s noble work. But the body’s got its limits, and pushin’ past ‘em too often? Won't do you any good."

  He shakes his head. "You’d best find time to rest now and again, before you croak."

  I'd have it. But I'm spending it studying that damnable scroll. If I could just figure it out I'd have more time to recover.

  I rest my face in my hands, groaning. The symbols still linger behind my eyelids, burned into my head after countless hours looking at them. God I hate those fucking things.

  My face feels hot... too hot.

  Then I smell it.

  Smoke.

  "Shit!" I curse, slapping at my hair. A few strands smolder, a handful of embers falling from them as they curl to ash between my fingers. I smack them out with panicked, clumsy swats.

  It’s not the first time. Lately, my hands spark fire without warning. Just faint whisps, barely more than smoke, but if I hold it too long, something always lights up.

  It’s getting worse too.

  Or better, depending on how I look at it.

  Now was a particularly poor time for it though, both Osric and Elsie are staring at me, eyebrows raised as though they were looking at a lunatic.

  I wipe my face and nod my thanks to them, dropping a few copper coins onto the bar with a soft clink. "Anyway, I better get back. Thanks for the drink and the food."

  Elsie waves cheerily as I push off the stool, grabbing the loaf of bread Osric offers. Back to Zaenith's apothecary. Alchemy lessons await, and if I’m even a minute late, she’ll make sure I regret it.

  Fuck you Vael, just come and kill me already.

  Results

  + 4 Strength

  + 2 Health

  + 2 Skill

  + 1 Mana

  Learned Skill: Basic Alchemy

  Stats