The morning was frost-bit, cold enough to sting the skin.
The boy squatted barefoot in the courtyard, feeling the damp chill bite through his feet into his bones. His wooden sword was awkward in his hands—unfamiliar as the shape of his own reflection, weighed differently than the loaves he stole. Above them both stretched the bruised purplish-black of a dying night-sky—the sun merely rumor hiding itself past the walls' eastern edge. Everything was gray, still, waiting.
Ryota stood a dozen strides distant, his own wooden sword gripped easily in one hand, his posture tense and wary. He hadn't spoken since they met here.
Steam rose off the boy's breath. Yumi had just changed his bandages before breakfast—efficient, swift fingers chattering about fools unable to recognize exhaustion when they saw it. He lied about hurting. She snorted.
"You know how to handle that?"
The question startled him into silence. He held the sword awkwardly, remembering vague movements of someone else's hands. Someone watching made his palms sweat, twisted the grip in ways the wood didn't want.
"No."
Ryota didn't react. He moved smoothly until he stood in front of the boy and rearranged the grip with steel fingers.
"Tighten it," he commanded. "Drop it, and you die."
"It's wood."
"It's practice." Ryota backed away, shifting into fighting stance. "Drop it, and you circle the perimeter until sunrise."
The boy tightened his grip, feeling metal-sharp pain bite into the palms he'd ruined. It was stupid—stupid to be so clumsy, stupid to accept this kind of discipline.
"Again," Ryota ordered.
"What?"
Ryota's patience wore thin. He stepped closer to examine, his mouth pinched into an impatient line. The boy felt exposed, vulnerable.
"Show me," Ryota said. The command held an accusation. Did he doubt the boy's ability to listen?
Carefully, self-consciously, the boy redid his grip. He concentrated on replicating Ryota's precise finger positions, but the sword resisted. It wasn't meant to fit into hands shaped by desperation and necessity.
Wood was light, graceful, impossibly balanced. Weapons shouldn't feel like this. Weapons should feel wrong.
Finally satisfied with his demonstration, Ryota nodded sharply, approving.
"Good enough."
He returned to his own position and unsheathed his blade.
"Come at me."
"What?"
"Come at me."
"I don't—"
Ryota lunged forward, attacking unexpectedly.
The blade struck toward his unprotected rib cage, and he leapt backward to avoid it—frozen by shock into a narrow vision of fragmented motion and sudden cold. He raised his own weapon just in time to parry the blow—jolted by the effort.
Numbness stole his fingers. The sword slipped from his grasp.
"You hesitate," Ryota corrected. Without pause, he attacked again.
Shaken, he regrasped the wooden sword and launched himself into motion. This time, he initiated the attack, determined not to repeat his mistake.
Ryota didn't defend himself; he dodged deftly, and the blade slashed through empty space. The boy missed the strike but lost his balance trying to recover—found the flat edge tapping against the back of his knee cap. His leg buckled underneath him, and he fell heavily to the stones.
"You overextend." The command echoed overhead. He was on his side now, looking upward toward Ryota's face.
"Swing like you mean to destroy the air itself. Don't waste effort hitting nothing."
Hurt, he struggled upright. His palms were scraped bloody on the stones—sharp pains shot up through muscles unused to exertion. His lungs ached. He wanted to stop.
"Footwork is terrible," Ryota said bluntly. He circled, studying the boy's exhausted movements. "Always dropping your guard. Always predictable."
The boy could hardly respond.
"Why train me?" he managed at last. The question sounded rougher than intended; his mouth tasted of rust. He kept his gaze lowered. "I know you don't like me."
"No," Ryota agreed quietly. "But Lord Waganaki gives orders, and I follow them."
"That's not enough," he persisted.
Again, there was a brief hesitation before Ryota replied. He seemed to choose each word with deliberation, searching for meaning the boy couldn't fathom.
"I don't like you." No mistaking the truth in that statement. Ryota didn't pretend otherwise. "But I respect your willpower."
His response was unexpected. Something shifted in Ryota's tone—the trace of an emotion too foreign for the boy to identify.
"Not completely."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving the boy alone.
An hour later, Yumi located him in the kitchen, still seated with blank, stunned eyes.
"Still got all your digits?"
He flexed his fingers experimentally, finding painful joints that resisted movement. Every muscle throbbed painfully, but at least everything remained intact.
"Yeah," he admitted grudgingly.
She placed a steaming mug in front of him and settled herself opposite. She observed his hands curiously—the ragged condition of his knuckles, scraped flesh visible through ragged strips of torn cloth. She made no attempt to disguise the critical expression.
"Ryota is hard on everyone." She sipped tea slowly, studying her hands as much as his. "When I first arrived here, I ran laps until I vomited twice."
The tea warmed his frozen fingers.
"You're good with a sword?"
She smiled thinly. "I tried. Tried for three months."
"What happened?"
She lifted her shoulders helplessly. "He said my grip was perfect, but my heart wasn't in the killing. Three months was all I tolerated."
"How did you learn?" he demanded.
Her smile vanished. "Back home, if you don't learn how to deflect a blunt stick, you spend your childhood covered in bruises. It wasn't art. It was survival."
"So why does Ryota train you? Not me."
She laughed derisively, the sound cold. "Because you still have something to prove to the Lord. I only care about preventing starvation."
She gathered the emptied mugs. He waited in expectant silence.
"Someone needs to treat injuries besides Ryota," she clarified wryly.
She paused beside the doorway, her gaze thoughtful. "Besides—" She smiled bitterly. "Someone needs to remind you why you fight."
She left. He drained his tea, letting it burn warmly into numb fingers. The tea cooled.
"Why did you join this household?" He looked up.
Silence. When she answered, her voice lacked its usual acidity, replaced temporarily by somber reflection.
"Had a younger brother," she began. "Intelligent, insightful. Too much for our village. Thought education would help. Thought he'd take us away from there."
She fell silent. The silence was oppressive.
"Three years ago, plague struck. Village, city, all of it. My brother died during quarantine," she finished dully.
Something heavy pressed down on his chest. He didn't understand. Couldn't speak.
"Could not live in my home," she said shortly. The anger seeped back, sharp and uncontrolled. "Too much like it. Left."
"Kept going until I reached this house."
This explanation, he realized, meant far more than her usual bluntness implied. It revealed an intimacy previously concealed under sarcastic comments.
"Sorry," he murmured automatically.
"Don't apologize." Abruptly, she softened again. "Was three years ago. Doesn't matter anymore."
"It does."
Her expression hardened defensively. "Stop pitying me."
Suddenly, he saw her differently. More clearly—more comprehensively. Something changed in her face, in her posture.
He touched the scar along his forehead—memories resurfacing. Her face relaxed.
"Don't do that." Amusement flickered briefly in her eyes. She smiled. "I'm fine. You look like you rode a horse."
He winced. "Worse than a horse. At least they know how to walk gently."
She laughed openly—wildly, sharply, joyously.
"Eat. You start practicing again tomorrow."
She walked toward the door again. He hesitated before calling her back.
"Yumi?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you," he replied simply. "For the bandages. For everything."
She paused, her expression thoughtful. After an uncomfortable silence, she responded tersely.
"Sleep." Her voice softened abruptly. "You're useless dead."
Then she vanished.