If the first week at Silverpaw is meant to break you, the second is designed to see what’s left after you stop fighting.
I build a routine out of necessity, not comfort. Each dawn is an assault: the cold, the ache, the copper taste of adrenaline whenever boots ring down the stone hall. I move through the hours like an animal with its scent masked, never drawing focus, always keeping my profile low and my eyes lower.
Every morning is a ritual, practiced until the motions are muscle memory. I wake before the bell, sit on the edge of my bunk. Jax is never there in the morning, but I still hide behind the privacy screen to bind and dress. I even receive my fitted uniforms, though they come with a note to get refitted ASAP once I'm heal, which I ignore.
Class is a test, not just of knowledge
