Chapter 3: I Gave Her a Stick and Told Her to Go Away

The girl woke up screaming—

I dropped my tea cup— it shattered on the floor, splashing hot liquid across my feet— excellent start to the morning—

Elara bolted upright in the chair, eyes wild, hands clawing at the blanket like it was trying to strangle her— she looked around frantically, taking in the cabin, the broken furniture, me standing there with tea-soaked feet—

“You’re still in my house— calm down.”

She blinked— recognition slowly replacing panic— her breathing slowed from hyperventilating to merely rapid—

“I thought— the wolf—”

“Dead— very dead— you’re fine.”

She touched her side where the wounds had been— felt nothing but smooth skin under the torn dress— her fingers traced the area over and over, like she couldn’t believe it was real—

“You healed me.”

“I closed some cuts— don’t make it dramatic.”

I grabbed a rag and started mopping up the spilled tea— waste of perfectly good chamomile— the broken cup pieces went into a pile by the door— I’d deal with them later— or never— never was also an option—

Elara stood up slowly, testing her weight— no wobbling, no pain— she looked down at herself and seemed to realize for the first time that her dress was basically destroyed, hanging off her in strips—

Her face went bright red—

“I need to go home— my mother— she’s probably worried—”

“Probably— yeah.”

She moved toward the door— took three steps and stopped— turned back to look at me with those unsettling red eyes— something had changed in them overnight, some shift I couldn’t quite identify—

“What’s your name?”

“Dorian— you asked me that yesterday.”

“I know— I just— wanted to make sure it was real.”

I raised an eyebrow— “The name?”

“All of it— you appearing like that, killing the Dire Wolf with one hit, healing me— it feels like a fever dream.”

I started brewing more tea— my morning was already ruined, might as well commit— “It happened— you were there— very loud about the whole thing.”

She laughed, nervous and breathy— “I’ve never seen anyone move like that— the way you swung that stick— it was like— like—”

“Like hitting something with a stick?”

“No— it was more than that— the air around you, it felt— heavy— like the world itself was bending.”

I paused mid-pour— looked at her— she was serious, completely serious, staring at me like I’d just revealed the secrets of the universe—

“That’s just regular magic— nothing special.”

“Regular magic doesn’t kill a Dire Wolf in one hit— my village elder is a trained warrior and it took him and five other men to bring one down last year— they lost two people— you didn’t even look worried.”

I handed her a cup of tea— she took it automatically, still staring—

“I was worried— worried about my sleep schedule— do you know how hard it is to fall back asleep after being woken up by screaming?”

She wasn’t listening— her eyes had that distant look people got when they were building narratives in their heads— narratives that usually involved me being way more impressive than I actually was—

“You’re hiding your true power.”

“I’m drinking tea.”

“That’s what a master would say— concealing yourself as an ordinary person, living in isolation to avoid attention— it’s like the old stories my grandmother used to tell— about hermit sages who transcended mortal concerns.”

I sipped my tea— it was going cold— this conversation was taking too long—

“I’m not a sage— I’m retired— there’s a difference.”

She set down her cup— her hands were shaking but not from fear anymore— something else entirely— “Teach me.”

“No.”

“Please— I need to become strong—”

“Find a different teacher— there’s probably one in your village— the elder you mentioned sounds capable.”

Her face hardened— that shift in her eyes becoming more pronounced— desperation mixed with something darker—

“The elder is dead— bandits attacked three months ago— killed him and twelve others— took everything we had— my father tried to stop them and they—”

She stopped— swallowed hard— her jaw clenched—

“They hurt my mother trying to make him tell where we hid our food— he didn’t break but she— she hasn’t been the same since— that’s why I was gathering herbs, trying to find something to help her sleep through the nightmares.”

I said nothing— just watched her hands curl into fists—

“I’m weak— I couldn’t protect anyone— I can barely swing a practice sword without dropping it— when the wolf attacked, I just froze— stood there like a useless—”

“Stop.”

She looked up at me— tears gathering in her eyes but not falling— held back by sheer force of will—

“Teaching is work— I don’t do work— that’s why I’m here— to avoid work.”

“I’ll do anything— chores, cooking, cleaning— I’ll fix your roof, gather firewood, whatever you need— just teach me how to be strong enough to protect the people I love.”

I rubbed my face— this was exactly the kind of complication I’d moved up here to avoid— desperate students with tragic backstories were basically magnets for future drama—

“You don’t understand what you’re asking—”

“Then explain it— help me understand— I’m not asking for much, just—”

“You’re asking me to care— that’s asking for a lot.”

The words came out harsher than intended— she flinched like I’d slapped her— her eyes dropped to the floor—

Silence stretched between us— uncomfortable and heavy—

I sighed— the deep, soul-tired kind that acknowledged defeat before the battle even started—

“You see that boulder outside— the big one by the tree line?”

She looked through the broken window— spotted it immediately, massive gray stone half-buried in the ground— probably weighed more than a small house—

“I see it.”

I walked over to the woodpile and grabbed another stick— this one thinner than the one I’d used on the wolf, barely thicker than a walking cane— I tossed it to her—

She caught it awkwardly— “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Swing it at the boulder— ten thousand times— if you break the rock, I’ll teach you.”

Her mouth fell open— “Ten thousand— that’s—”

“Impossible— yeah— that’s the point— you’ll realize how ridiculous this is, go home, and I can go back to drinking tea in peace.”

She looked at the stick— then at the boulder— then back at me— her red eyes had that shine again, the one that meant she was building another narrative—

“This is a test.”

“It’s not a test— it’s me trying to get rid of you politely.”

“You’re testing my resolve— seeing if I have the determination to become your student—”

“I’m literally telling you right now that I don’t want students—”

“Of course you’d say that— a true master wouldn’t accept a weak-willed disciple— you need to see proof of my dedication—”

I stared at her— she stared back— completely convinced she’d figured out my secret plan—

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Pain is part of training—”

“Pain is your body telling you to stop doing stupid things—”

“I won’t stop until the boulder breaks.”

She said it with absolute conviction— the kind that came right before people did something monumentally dumb and called it character development—

I gave up— arguing with determined idiots was exhausting— “Fine— go swing at a rock— I’m taking a nap.”

I walked past her toward my chair— she was already out the door, stick gripped in both hands like it was a holy relic—

Through the window, I watched her approach the boulder— she planted her feet, raised the stick overhead, and swung—

The stick bounced off the stone with a sad little tap—

She swung again— same result—

“One.”

Oh no— she was counting—

I grabbed my blanket and collapsed into the chair— still warm from where she’d slept— smelled like blood and dirt and misplaced determination—

Outside, the tapping continued— rhythmic and pathetic—

“Two— three— four—”

This would last an hour— maybe two if she was stubborn— then she’d give up, go home, and I could finally get some peace—

I closed my eyes—

The tapping didn’t stop—

I woke up to the sound of splintering wood—

Sunlight streamed through the windows at a different angle— late afternoon— I’d been asleep for hours—

The tapping had turned into crashes— regular and violent— shaking the walls—

I dragged myself up and looked outside—

Elara was still there—

Her hands were bleeding— the stick had worn away the skin on her palms, leaving raw red meat— blood dripped down the wood with every swing— her dress was soaked with sweat— her hair had come loose, falling in wet tangles around her face—

But her eyes—

Her eyes were wide and bright— pupils dilated so far they almost swallowed the red— she smiled while she swung, a small curved thing that didn’t match the destruction of her hands—

“Four thousand six hundred and twelve—”

The boulder had a dent— small but visible— a depression in the stone where she’d been hitting the same spot over and over—

“Four thousand six hundred and thirteen—”

I stood there watching— unable to look away— this girl had been swinging for six hours straight— no breaks, no water, no stopping—

“Four thousand six hundred and fourteen—”

Her form was terrible— all arms, no hip rotation, wasting energy with every movement— but she didn’t care— didn’t slow down—

“Four thousand six hundred and fifteen—”

This wasn’t determination anymore— this was something else— something broken and dangerous—

I should stop her—

I should go out there and tell her to quit before she permanently damaged her hands—

Instead I watched her swing again— watched the blood fly— watched that smile grow wider—

“Four thousand six hundred and sixteen—”

She wasn’t going to stop—

She was actually going to do it—

Ten thousand swings at a boulder with a stick—

“What have I done?”

No one answered— just the crash of wood on stone and her voice counting higher—

I went back to my chair— sat down— stared at the ceiling—

Tomorrow I’d tell her it was a joke— tomorrow I’d send her home properly—

Tomorrow—

Outside, the crashes continued—

“Four thousand six hundred and seventeen—”

I closed my eyes and tried not to hear it—

Tried not to think about the way her eyes had changed—

From fear to desperation to something that looked uncomfortably like worship—

“Four thousand six hundred and eighteen—”

Sleep didn’t come—

Just the counting—

Always the counting—