Each new skill was a small victory, each successfully completed task a tiny step towards independence. But she also learned her limits.
She couldn’t lift the heavy logs he brought from the forest. She couldn’t carry the full water bucket no matter how she tried. She couldn’t work for more than a few hours before exhaustion forced her to rest. She was improving, yes—but improving from dismal to slightly less dismal was hardly a triumph.
“You’re frustrated,” he observed one evening, watching her struggle to split a piece of kindling.
“I’m failing,” she corrected, bringing the small axe down and missing her target entirely. The blade bit into the chopping block instead, and she had to wrestle it free with both hands.
“You’re learning. Learning requires failure.”
“I’ve been failing for three days. At some point, shouldn’t the learning part kick in?”
He made a sound that might have been amusement. “You’ve improved significantly. Your knife work is passable. Your fire maintenance is adequate. Your?—”
“My strength is pathetic.” She dropped the axe and flexed her hands, feeling the ache in her palms. “I can’t do half the tasks that need doing because my body won’t cooperate. I can learn the technique perfectly and it won’t matter if I can’t lift the weight.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Strength takes time to build. Longer for someone starting from where you’re starting.”
“Is there a way to build it faster?”
“Not safely.”
“What about unsafely?”
His eyebrows rose. “You’d risk injury to gain strength more quickly?”
“I’d risk temporary discomfort to become less of a burden more quickly, yes.” She met his eyes, unflinching. “I’m tired of watching you do three times the work because I can’t carry my share. If there’s a way to change that faster, I want to know about it. You’re strong, but it’s not just because you’re Vultor, is it? How did you build all those muscles?”
Unable to help herself, her gaze traveled over him. Over the broad expanse of his chest and the heavily muscled arms, down to his powerful legs and, for just a second, to the impressive bulge between them. She snapped her eyes back up to his, her face flushing. His eyes flared gold before he looked away and her stomach flipped.
Stop looking, Ember.But she couldn’t help herself. He was magnificent.
“Daily training,” he said, returning to her question. “In my case it was warrior training. Pushing my body past its limitsrepeatedly, then letting it recover stronger. But you’ve already pushed past your limits, and your body is still recovering. Pushing more now could cause injury.”
“So what’s the solution?”
“Patience.”
She hated that answer. Hated the idea of waiting weeks, maybe months, to become capable of basic tasks. But she also hated the idea of hurting herself and slowing down her progress even more.
“Fine,” she said, picking up the axe again. “Patience it is.”
“Let me show you how to use your body’s momentum,” he said, stepping behind her. “You’re trying to power through with arm strength alone. Use your whole body.”
He guided her through the motion, his hands on her hips, his chest pressed against her back, showing her how to shift her weight and use the rotation of her torso to add power to the swing. The brief contact sent a jolt of awareness through her that had nothing to do with chopping wood.
“Again,” he said, stepping back.
She swung the axe, using her body as he’d shown her, and the piece of kindling split cleanly in two.
A slow smile spread across her face. “I did it.”
“Again.”
She did it again. And again. Each piece of kindling split with a satisfying crack of wood. By the fifth one, her arms were trembling, but she didn’t stop.
“Enough for today,” he said eventually.
“Just one more,” she insisted, bringing the axe down one final time. The wood split, but the axe slipped from her numb fingers and clattered to the floor. She stared at her hands shaking, her muscles quivering with fatigue. But she also felt a surge of pride—a feeling that was becoming more familiar with each small victory.
