---
Morning arrived as it always did, slow and indifferent.
Light spilled through the cracks in the walls, brushing stone and wood with an uncaring hand. Dust floated in lazy spirals, disturbed only by the soft movements of breath and the distant stir of the city waking to another ordinary day.
Nothing looked different.
That was the problem.
Maxmilian rose before the sun fully breached the horizon. His remaining hand flexed, tracing the air, testing strength. Habit, he reminded himself, was a weapon of its own. Years of discipline had carved reflexes deeper than bone, and though the absence of his left hand reminded him that life had shifted, he moved with calculated precision.
Rexor waited in the yard, arms crossed, eyes dark and focused. His stance was tense—not impatience, but coiled energy, like a spring ready to snap.
"Today," Maxmilian said, voice low and deliberate, "we start over. From the ground up."
Rexor's jaw tightened. "Again?"
"Again," Maxmilian replied. "The way it should be done."
No argument followed. Not today. Today was survival, not ego.
---
The training began with the basics. Footwork. Shifts of weight. Stances that demanded balance more than force. Maxmilian moved deliberately, demonstrating, correcting, forcing Rexor to feel the center of his own gravity, the tiny nuances between stability and collapse.
"Too much force," Maxmilian said, stepping closer. "Let the strike follow the mind, not the muscle. Otherwise, the first mistake costs more than pride."
Rexor faltered at first. Frustration bubbled in him, but Maxmilian did not hurry. He demonstrated again, slow, precise, every movement an instruction and a warning.
"Anger," Maxmilian said quietly, "is a blade that cuts you first. Control it—or it will decide for you."
"I can't control it!" Rexor shouted, voice cracking.
"You can," Maxmilian said simply. "And you will. Watch, learn, and strike only when your mind allows it. Not before."
---
Hours passed. Sweat darkened their clothes. The sun climbed overhead. Each strike was cataloged in Maxmilian's eyes, corrected and repeated, until movement was less reaction and more thought made visible.
By mid-morning, a rhythm emerged. Movements sharpened, precise. Breathing steadied. Mind cleared. Maxmilian nodded once. Small victory, but enough to matter.
"Stop," he finally said, lowering his stance. "Observe. Think. Half the fight exists in seeing what the enemy cannot."
Rexor leaned against the post, chest rising and falling. Muscles screamed, but pride softened the pain. He had survived the morning. That alone was proof that the lessons were sinking in.
Maxmilian observed him silently. He could see the tension in Rexor's shoulders, the way his fists clenched even when he thought he had relaxed. That tension, Maxmilian knew, could either save him—or destroy him.
---
Inside, Aurélia moved with quiet precision.
"Go to the fruit shop," Maxmilian had instructed earlier. "Food comes first. Without it, none of this matters."
She worked deftly, balancing baskets, scanning streets, counting coins. The city seemed calm—but calm was always deceptive. The shadow of the Outer Lands stretched further than anyone admitted. Her hands were steady, but her mind measured every movement, every path, every danger.
By noon, she returned. Fruits and vegetables secured, each basket a promise of survival. She carried the weight with grace, eyes sharp, noting the light in the sky and the sounds from the horizon. She placed the baskets carefully on the table, checking for bruises and signs of rot. Food today was more than sustenance—it was leverage against despair.
---
Voryn was already gone.
He moved through the city like a shadow with purpose. The path to the Outer Lands was familiar, but the air carried an unusual tension. Something had shifted. Something approached.
Beyond the eastern scar, he found them: demons unlike any he had faced before. Few in number, but precise, intelligent, and deadly. Their claws struck with weight and calculation, not blind frenzy.
Voryn did not hesitate.
He struck. He dodged. He countered. Each blow was calculated. Each movement deliberate. Three demons fell quickly. Two lingered, stronger, faster, forcing him to breathe through the strain, forcing him to rely on instinct and experience. Pain followed each clash—a sharp reminder that even he was mortal.
Voryn's mind ran constantly. Calculations of weight, trajectory, energy, and distance. Even in a small fight, mistakes could mean death. He pushed himself to the limit, lungs burning, arms heavy, mind sharpened to a knife's edge.
By the time the last demon fell, Voryn was bleeding from shallow cuts across his arms. His muscles screamed, lungs burned. Yet he gathered the fruits from the ground, checking each basket. Survival depended on more than strength. It depended on timing, calculation, and relentless perseverance.
The walk home was long, deliberate. The sun had sunk to the horizon by the time he returned, casting the city in long, uneasy shadows.
---
Maxmilian was waiting.
"You returned," he said quietly, voice measured.
Voryn nodded, lowering the baskets. "Yes. And soon… we won't be safe."
The words hung heavy. Maxmilian's eyes narrowed. He had trained skill, speed, resilience—but none of that could fully prepare them for the Outer Lands when it decided to act.
He looked to Rexor, still flushed from the morning training. The boy's exhaustion spoke more clearly than words: he had survived the day, adapted, and learned—but the danger looming outside remained unseen.
Voryn added softly, "They are changing. Smarter, faster… more dangerous. And they're moving closer."
Maxmilian did not answer immediately. He surveyed the house, the family, the fragile fortress they had carved out of the world's hostility.
"We adapt," he said finally. "We prepare. We endure. No matter what comes."
Aurélia set down the fruits. Voryn rested, each breath shallow but steady. Rexor's eyes gleamed with exhaustion, understanding, and fear mingled together.
The day ended not in relief, but in resolve.
Maxmilian's mind did not stop. Plans formed and shifted like clouds. Training schedules, rations, city patrols, defense strategies—all were examined, rethought, adjusted. Every detail mattered now more than ever.
Even as darkness fell, the sound of the wind through broken stone and empty streets carried a warning. The Outer Lands were patient. Indifferent. Unforgiving.
Inside, they would be ready.
Because survival did not ask permission.
And the house would not fall—not today.
---