Part Seven — Old Habits, New Muscles

　Doran turned out to be the kind of teacher who believed pain was a better instructor than words.

　I discovered that approximately four seconds into our first real lesson—

when he swept my legs out from under me without warning.

"Rule one," he said, looking down at me from what felt like a genuinely unfair height.

"Nobody waits for you to be ready."

Cool.

Great.

Love that for me.

I picked myself up out of the dirt behind the inn.

He'd claimed the little scrap of yard as a training space on our second morning in town, mostly by standing in it until nobody argued, and reset into the stance he'd shown me the day before.

"Again."

We did it again.

And again after that.

By the fourth time I actually managed to stay upright.

Which felt like a bigger accomplishment than it probably was.

I want to be honest about something:

Sword work with Doran was nothing like training with my father.

Dad had taught with warmth buried under discipline — corrections delivered like a man who wanted you to succeed, patient even when I was slow to get something.

Doran corrected like a man who'd learned everything he knew the hard way and saw no reason I should get an easier version of it.

"Your guard's too high."

He adjusted my arm with more force than strictly necessary.

"You're protecting your face and leaving your ribs open. First real opponent that isn't me is going to notice that in about half a second."

"Noted."

I lowered my arm the exact amount he'd shown me.

He only grunted.

From Doran, I was learning, a grunt was practically a compliment.

He's not unkind.

He's just efficient.

There's a difference, even if it doesn't always feel like one at the time.

We fell into a rhythm over the next several days.

A rhythm I found myself, somewhat embarrassingly, looking forward to.

Mornings were sword work with Doran — drills, corrections, the occasional bruise I wore with more pride than the injury probably deserved.

Afternoons were mine.

Quiet anti-mana control exercises my mother had taught me, alone at the edge of town where nobody would ask questions about the boy quietly lighting single blades of grass on fire and looking entirely too pleased about it.

Evenings were the best part, if I'm being honest.

Dinner at the inn.

The innkeeper's wife slipping me an extra roll when Doran wasn't looking, like she thought I needed fattening up.

And Doran nursing a single drink while pretending he wasn't watching the door out of habit.

"You do that a lot," I said one such evening, nodding toward the door.

"Do what."

"Watch it."

I paused.

"Like you're expecting someone."

He didn't answer right away.

Which, from Doran, meant the question had actually landed somewhere.

"Old habit," he said eventually.

"Used to matter more than it does now."

"Used to?"

"Long story."

He took another drink.

"Not tonight's story."

Fair enough.

I've got a few of those myself.

I let it go.

Mostly because pushing didn't feel like it would get me anywhere.

And partly because I recognized the shape of that answer.

It was the same shape I'd have given anyone who asked me too many questions about a mountain and a family I didn't talk about yet either.

The scar was the one thing I couldn't help asking about, eventually.

Jaw to collarbone.

Old enough that it had gone the pale, matte color of something that had stopped hurting a long time ago but never stopped being there.

"You going to tell me that's an old habit too?" I asked, mid-drill, when he caught me looking.

That actually got a short laugh out of him.

Rare enough that I filed the sound away like it mattered.

"No," he said.

"That one's got a story."

A pause.

"Just not one I'm giving away for free."

"What's the asking price?"

"You surviving long enough to earn it."

And then—

He swept my legs out from under me again before I could come up with a smart response.

Worth it, honestly.

That's a better answer than most people give.

By the end of the week, I could hold my guard properly for longer than thirty seconds.

Doran seemed to regard that as a genuine milestone.

I'd also stopped burning myself on my own control exercises entirely.

Which felt like the first unambiguous win I'd had since the mountain.

Small things.

None of it dramatic.

But sitting by the fire that last evening, watching Doran clean a blade he'd already cleaned twice that day out of pure habit, I found myself thinking something I hadn't expected to feel this soon.

This isn't the family I had.

It's not trying to be.

But it's not nothing, either.