The horse beneath Adam heaved under him with labored breath, each one jostling his body like a sack of broken pottery. Adam had a festive night, from being chased by a pack of wolves, to facing down the Fenrir, and worst of all, surviving Isha’s lecturing.

The herbalist’s clinic was closed at the late hour, so Isha just hammered a note to expect a mauled Adam in the morning. Then, Adam had dozed off the rest of the way, his head slumped on Isha’s shoulder.

When he pried his eyes open again, they were already near his shack. His muscles ached all over, as sleep threatened to take him in back again.

Isha trotted the horse to a stop, then hauled him up right. His body screamed in protest, before Isha interrupted his agony. “If you vomit on my boots,” he warned, “I’ll toss you back to the wolves.”

Adam mustered a grin that felt more like a grimace. His retort faded into a wheeze—laughter stabbed his ribs like a dull knife. Behind him, the shack’s door gaped open on broken hinges.

‘Damn it, I forgot to lock the door again.’

Isha followed his eyes, another lecture ready to launch itself from his lips, but instead, a heavy, defeated sigh was all he breathed.

“Just get some rest for tonight.” Isha looped an arm around Adam’s waist, and helped him limp back into his broken home.

‘Home, huh?’ The word meant so little to Adam, now that both his parents were gone. Four walls and a roof that belonged to a ghost, his father’s name written on the deed, his mother’s scent long faded from the sheets.

Adam’s boots kicked up dust as he staggered into the cabin—his cabin, if two rooms and a leaking roof could claim such a word. The air was thick with the musty scent of damp wood, soaked through with years of rain and left to dry in the sun. A cot sagged in the corner, its straw mattress permanently dented where he curled up each night. At the other corner of the room, an oval mirror reflected only shadows, its surface pocked with age yet perfectly functioned for his purposes. The wardrobe beside it held more dust than clothes, though, next to the kitchen’s doorframe.

He collapsed onto the cot, its groan louder than his own. And looked up at Isha’s slender figure lingering at the doorway, wondering when he would leave.

Isha answered his questioning look with one of his own. “Try not to croak before dawn.” Arms crossed, with fingers drumming against his elbow.

A smirk tugged at Adam’s lip. "Worried I’ll haunt you?"

Isha snorted and stepped back, the door creaking shut behind him. His muffled warning chased the retreating hoof beats: "If I hear a whiff about you stepping foot toward that forest, the tournament’s off."

Adam’s chuckle on his bed morphed into a wince. Then he sat silently, listening to the nightly chorus of his shack. Water was still dripping from the leaking roof of the kitchen - a storage room for repugnant pelts and forgotten kills- and the window’s rusted hinges squeaked, creating a blend of sounds that Adam had grown fond of.

Adam turned in his bed and faced a loose floorboard, where his father’s journal was hidden. His only solace, his only inheritance, aside from the shack itself.

Humble. That’s what the villagers called it when they were feeling kind. But the shack had a knack for keeping things: the stench of old blood, the ghost of Tammer’s laughter, the weight of a father’s name on a deed no one else wanted.

Adam’s fingers traced the journal’s cover, as he curled up under the covers. The leather of the journal was worn smooth, yet it held firm. He ran his fingers through the yellow, worn pages, and the Fenrir’s yellow eye flashed behind his lids. He could still feel its breath behind on his neck, hear the crack of the tree branch as he’d fallen—

‘Stop,’ he wrenched the journal open with a snap, as if the sound could sever the memory. Several stances and ways to hold the sword, the mace, and even the bow were all written down in the journal. The scribbles were badly written, with words scattered all over the pages, and crude drawings that resembled a child’s.

Adam had gone over the notes countless times, and he had adopted many useful tips on how to move his wrists, hips, and shoulders in a fight. The notebook that many would render as garbage was, in fact, Adam’s greatest treasure.

One move in particular caught his eye today, it felt familiar, not from his practices, but like something he had seen in a dream -or nightmare- kind of familiar.

It was in the first few pages, smudged with what might’ve been ale or blood, a sketch of a figure lunging forward, blade arcing down in a feigned vertical slash before twisting into a horizontal strike.

A caption read: “incite them to parry, feign arrogance. Then bleed them dry.”

Adam sat up straight, trying to conjure up a memory, then slumped back down in defeat. He kicked his feet up and shook his head, but came up with nothing.

After a few minutes of unfruitful thoughts, Adam felt his mind grow heavy, as fatigue slowly took him to sleep.