Days lose their names.

  They become measures of pain instead, how long the wind howls before easing, how deep the snow grows overnight, how many steps it takes before feeling returns to numb feet. Weeks pass in this manner, marked only by the rising and setting of a sun that offers no warmth.

  Exhaustion becomes routine.

  Eric wakes tired. He walks tired. He sleeps tired. The ache in his muscles never fully leaves; it merely shifts, settling into joints, into bone. His hands crack and bleed despite the salve rationed sparingly by the king’s men. He wraps them in cloth and keeps moving.

  Everyone does.

  The column stretches longer now, winding through forests and over frozen lowlands. Villages grow farther apart. When they appear, they are smaller, poorer, clinging to the road like afterthoughts.

  Some supplicants fall out.

  At first, it is small things, a twisted ankle, a fever that lingers too long. The king’s men intervene quickly, efficiently. A boy limps back into line after being bandaged. A girl rides a wagon for half a day, then is set back on her feet once her color returns.

  No one is allowed to die where it can be seen.

  When death comes, it does so quietly.

  A boy does not wake in his tent. A girl wanders off in the night, confused by fever, and is found stiff by morning light. Names are spoken once, recorded, then never mentioned again.

  Eric notices how the column closes ranks afterward, how the space left behind vanishes within hours.

  Life moves forward.

  One evening, after a particularly brutal day of sleet and headwind, the column is halted earlier than usual. Fires are lit quickly. Stew is thicker than normal, still thin, but less so.

  The king’s men gather them.

  “You’re behind,” a captain announces, voice carrying easily over the wind. “The weather has slowed you. Understandable.”

  Murmurs ripple through the group.

  “But understand this,” the captain continues. “Strength and constitution matter. Effort matters. Those who push themselves, who endure, stand a better chance of earning uncommon classes.”

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  Eric feels the words settle like stones.

  “You’re slacking,” another guard adds bluntly. “Dragging. If you want more than a farmer’s blade or a clerk’s quill, you need to show it.”

  A murmur of renewed movement follows. Backs straighten. Jaws set.

  Eric sees the truth beneath the words.

  They want to move faster.

  The king’s men are cold too.

  The next days are harder.

  The pace quickens just enough to hurt. Stops shorten. Complaints are met with flat stares. Those who fall too far behind are urged forward with sharp words and, occasionally, a hand on the shoulder that is more force than support.

  Eric watches carefully.

  He notices who receives help when they stumble, those who can read, who have shown skill, who carry themselves with confidence.

  He notices who does not.

  Jonel struggles more with each day. His steps drag. His eyes are dull. Once, when he trips and falls, no one rushes to help. He gets up on his own, face flushed with shame.

  Eric slows, offers an arm. Jonel takes it, gripping tightly.

  “Thank you,” Jonel whispers.

  That night, Jonel’s tent is empty.

  No announcement is made.

  Eric does not ask where he has gone.

  Instead, he begins to count.

  How many meals.

  How many stops.

  How many times a king’s man looks away.

  He notices that the line between help and neglect is thin, and intentional.

  At a river crossing, a girl slips on the ice and goes under. The water is black and fast. Two guards pull her out quickly, wrap her in cloaks, force warm drink between her lips.

  They do not stop for the boy who falls moments later.

  Eric hears the splash. The shout.

  Then nothing.

  The column moves on.

  That night, Eric cannot sleep.

  He stares at the tent ceiling, watching frost creep along the seams, and thinks of the stories he read as a child. Of trials meant to temper heroes.

  This is not that.

  This is sorting.

  The next morning, Emil walks beside him, voice hoarse. “Did you see?”

  “Yes.”

  “They didn’t even look.”

  “I know.”

  Cathryn joins them later, eyes sharp, expression grim. “They’re picking and choosing.”

  “Yes,” Eric says.

  She studies him. “You sound certain.”

  “I’m paying attention.”

  From that day on, Eric watches everything.

  He watches who the king’s men speak to privately. He watches how often certain supplicants are checked on. He watches how those who move efficiently, who complain least, are subtly favored.

  He adjusts his own pace accordingly, not too slow, not too eager.

  Strong enough to endure.

  Quiet enough to avoid notice.

  He helps when he can, but not so much that it draws attention. He conserves energy. He eats carefully. He rests whenever the chance appears, no matter how brief.

  Weeks pass.

  Snow gives way to bitter rain, then back to snow again. The land rises gradually, the air thinning, the road narrowing between stone and pine.

  The capital is still far.

  One evening, as they make camp beneath a stand of ancient trees, a guard approaches Eric.

  “You,” he says. “You’ve been steady.”

  Eric meets his gaze. “I do my best.”

  The guard nods once. “Keep it up.”

  It is not praise.

  It is a warning.

  As the fire crackles and the wind moans through the branches, Eric understands something fully for the first time.

  Survival here is not about strength alone.

  It is about learning exactly how much strength to show, and when.

  And that lesson may matter more than any class the Kingstone could ever grant.