Jacob had stayed up longer than he intended, slouched at his desk beneath the fading lamplight, eyes squinting behind his smudged glasses as he flipped through page after page of the old tome. Half of it was incomprehensible convoluted theories, diagrams of runes too intricate to trace by memory, terms he hadn’t even heard before.

  But there was something deeply satisfying in the struggle to understand it. He read not with the confidence of comprehension, but with the hunger of someone who wanted to grasp something just beyond his reach. And somehow, that was enough. Even if he understood little, he felt something click inside him, a growing awareness that the world of runery was deeper, broader, and more alive than he had ever imagined.

  Eventually, when the book’s lines began to blur and his eyes could no longer focus, he rose stiffly from his chair, stretched his arms overhead, and wandered to the washroom. The cold water stung when he stepped into the basin, but he welcomed it, it helped snap him out of the dreamlike haze brought on by late-night reading. His limbs felt heavy, and he moved slowly, already anticipating the day ahead.

  Today, he would be training with Alex.

  He didn’t exactly dread it, but it loomed over him like an unpleasant inevitability. He couldn’t deny that it helped, his brother’s methods were brutal but effective. The real problem was him. His body. He wasn’t strong, never had been, and facing that truth every morning wore on him in quiet, persistent ways.

  He dried off, dressed in a plain brown shirt and loose black pants, and slipped out the side door near the kitchen to avoid the eyes of any servants or staff. The training ground was behind the estate, an open rectangle of packed dirt and sun-bleached sand, bordered by short stone posts and the faint outlines of footwork drills long worn into the ground.

  Alex was already there, standing with arms crossed, casually tossing four metallic rings into the air one at a time, then two at once, without even glancing at them. His white shirt clung to his frame, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his boots were planted firm in the sand. He looked every bit the seasoned warrior, focused and completely at ease.

  Jacob’s stomach sank the moment he saw the bracelets. He knew what they were.

  “They’re weights,” Alex said, tossing them toward him. Jacob barely caught one before fumbling the rest. “Two for your wrists. Two for your ankles. Keep them on. Always. If I see you training without them, we start over.”

  Jacob slid them on, one by one. The moment they locked in place, his limbs felt like they’d been dipped in concrete. His shoulders sagged under the sudden weight, and his knees bent involuntarily. Just lifting an arm took effort.

  “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, flexing his fingers stiffly.

  Alex raised an eyebrow. “That’s what weakness feels like. Get used to it.”

  Jacob scowled but said nothing.

  “Start with two laps around the field. Go.”

  Jacob stared at him. “With the weights?”

  Alex didn’t respond.

  So he began. He didn’t run, he couldn’t. Each step was a slow, dragging motion, as if his legs were encased in mud. The bracelets bit into his skin, and his breathing grew heavy by the time he finished the first corner of the lap. Sweat prickled along his hairline. The sun wasn’t even that hot yet, but already his shirt clung to his back.

  It wasn’t Jacob’s fault though, this really was the fastest he could go right now. He hadn’t realized how weak he was until he felt his muscles strain from something so basic. He had forsaken physical training the moment he decided he would become a sorcerer and not a knight. Back then, he didn’t understand how important it would be.

  And even after he did realize it mattered, he had no passion for getting stronger not physically. The truth was, if not for his father’s orders, he wouldn’t care at all about his physical state. He wanted to be a sorcerer, yes, but not a practical one.

  There were two branches under sorcery. Runery, the theoretical study and creation of runes. Those who followed that path were called scholars. Many scholars did use their knowledge in battle, but a significant number focused entirely on research and academia. That was what Jacob wanted to become: a true scholar, someone who would write theories by the hundreds, dissect the secrets of runes, and leave behind volumes of knowledge.

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  The second branch was magic. It dealt with the practical application of runes. Mages, as they were called, used rune sequences to manipulate the environment, fire runes to summon flame, strength runes to bolster their bodies, defense runes to create shields. The act of using runes was magic; the study of them was runery.

  The allure of magic had tempted him more than once, he had to admit but in the end, nothing felt as fulfilling as sitting behind a desk and unraveling mysteries that others had yet to solve. That was why he had never bothered training himself. He hadn’t planned on needing a strong body.

  But now, as his feet dragged through sand and his lungs burned from the effort, that decision returned like a ghost with a cruel smile.

  By the time he finished the second lap, nearly half an hour had passed. He collapsed onto the dirt, arms sprawled, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. His entire body ached.

  “You’re slower than I thought,” Alex said bluntly, not even looking winded. “Get up. We’re not done.”

  Jacob forced himself upright, the bracelets groaning as he moved. “What now?”

  “Shadowboxing. Watch first.”

  Alex shifted his stance with a calm precision that spoke of routine, as if every motion had been repeated a thousand times before. He placed his left foot forward, slightly angled, knees bent just enough for mobility without sacrificing balance. His fists rose tight, level, unmoving, and then he began to move.

  There was no wasted effort. His jabs snapped out like strikes from a coiled whip, crisp and direct, each one retracting instantly as if pulled by a string. His shoulders twisted with every cross, his hips turning subtly to generate power without sacrificing control.

  His feet shuffled through the sand with barely a sound, grounding each strike without compromising his posture. Kicks followed, delivered low and fast, never high enough to lose balance, each one accompanied by a short exhale as his boot cut through the air with practiced speed.

  It was a quiet, deadly rhythm, no theatrics, no roaring displays of force just clean, efficient violence honed through repetition.

  Jacob stood still and watched, feeling the weight of his own body more acutely now. There was no rune magic behind Alex’s movements, no enhancement, no trickery. Just muscle, discipline, and memory. And that made it harder to look away.

  “Your turn,” Alex said without pausing.

  Jacob swallowed dryly. He set his feet, left forward, knees bent, just like Alex had but it already felt wrong. His balance was off, his center of gravity unsteady, and the ankle weights dragged at him like iron shackles.

  He tried a punch. The moment he extended his arm, the wrist weight pulled it downward mid-motion, disrupting his aim and tipping him forward. He stumbled and caught himself with a grunt.

  “Again,” Alex said, still perfectly calm.

  Jacob tried to reset his posture. His legs were already burning from the laps, and now every slight shift of weight sent discomfort shooting up his thighs. Still, he threw another punch this one slower, more cautious and again, the weight dragged it down, throwing off his line and exposing his chest. It was worse than before. He shuffled back, breath quickening.

  Another attempt. Another failure.

  By the fifth try, his shirt clung to his back, soaked in sweat. His breathing was ragged, his face flushed from the effort and the embarrassment. Every time he tried to mimic Alex’s stance, his own body betrayed him, his muscles weren’t conditioned for this, his mind wasn’t trained to coordinate his limbs like a fighter’s. He was thinking too much, but also not enough.

  “Let me take the weights off,” he snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. “This isn’t helping it’s just slowing me down.”

  Alex didn’t even blink. “You think that’s the point?”

  Jacob clenched his fists. “I’m not a knight.”

  “No,” Alex said, “you’re not. But that doesn’t mean you get to be helpless.”

  The words struck deeper than they should have. Alex hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t insulted him, hadn’t mocked him and yet Jacob felt more exposed than if he’d been yelled at. That simple truth, spoken with such matter-of-fact certainty, made him feel small. Weak.

  And worst of all, it was true.

  He tried again.

  This time, he focused less on power and more on form. He adjusted his footing, shifted his weight a little farther back to compensate for the wrist weights. His punch was slow, but more aligned. It didn’t swing wildly off-course. His elbow stayed tucked. His shoulder didn’t lift unnecessarily. It was still weak, still sluggish, and he still fell forward with each attempt, but it was better.

  Then he tried another. And another. The kicks came next, though they were even worse. His legs felt like they were filled with wet sand, every lift of the knee an act of willpower rather than instinct. He fell twice trying to spin into a hook kick and scraped his palm on the dirt the second time.

  But he kept going.

  His arms trembled. His calves cramped. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. And still, he moved.

  Eventually, Alex raised a hand. “Break.”

  Jacob collapsed to his knees, chest heaving, head bowed. Sweat dripped from his chin, darkening the sand beneath him.

  “You didn’t quit,” Alex said, stepping beside him. “Good. That’s the only thing that matters right now.”

  Jacob didn’t have the energy to respond. His arms hung at his sides, quivering. His back ached. His wrists felt like they’d been pounded by hammers. The bracelets now felt heavier than when he first put them on, not just because of the weight, but because of how much they revealed about his limits.

  He stared down at the dirt, breathing hard, heart pounding. And yet, some part of him, some stubborn, quiet part was proud. Not of what he had done, but of the fact that he had kept moving.

  “Now push-ups,” Alex said, as if announcing the weather.

  Jacob looked up, wide-eyed. “You’re joking.”

  Alex cracked a smile. “Wouldn’t that be nice.”