Chapter 21 - Twenty Laps

  The morning light entered slowly, soundless.

  Not yet full brightness, only pale streaks snaking through the window to rest against the wooden walls. The air inside the cabin was still cold, settled into the cramped space.

  Zio was already awake. The lines around his eyes bore the marks of a restless sleep.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, both feet planted on the floor. His soles immediately caught the chill of the wood. His hands rested on his knees, his back slightly hunched.

  His body still expected the air of Greyhollow. The mountain gave him something else.

  As he exhaled, something stayed in his chest. Unfinished. It felt like a space that had not yet fully opened.

  The next breath no longer snagged as it had last night.

  He stood and walked without stumbling. His hands did not reach for the walls; his head did not spin.

  Zio grabbed his coat and draped it over his shoulders without buttoning it. The morning air touched his neck. He inhaled once more, this time through his nose.

  The air was cold and thin, filling his lungs completely.

  He paused for a moment, then stepped toward the window.

  Outside the cabin, a low mist hung below, moving slowly with the wind. It did not shift abruptly. Its path was stable, as if it knew exactly where to go.

  The sky was a pale hue, showing no sign of whether it would clear or remain overcast.

  Zio stood there for a few seconds longer than he realized. His breathing moved on its own now. His shoulders were no longer raised. His chest rose and fell with a slow, consistent rhythm.

  From behind the wall, footsteps approached. The wood creaked once, then stopped. Zyon was awake.

  Zio took a water bottle from the table and took a small sip. He waited, feeling for any reaction from his body. There was no change. His throat felt cleaner.

  He wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “So this is it,” he murmured softly, his voice nearly drowned out by the wind outside.

  The high, cold air crept into his lungs. Sharp, but still bearable.

  Zio reached for his boots and began to put them on, one foot then the other, ensuring the laces were tied tight before standing again.

  Zyon stepped out slowly, carrying his staff. He headed for the door and exited the cabin.

  The air outside felt more vast.

  As the door opened, the morning wind struck Zio’s face. It wasn't violent, but its cold settled deep into the skin, carrying the scent of wet stone and thin grass from the slopes below.

  Zyon stood a few paces ahead, his dark cloak fluttering lightly.

  “We walk a little,” he said.

  "Fine," Zio nodded, following Zyon’s lead.

  Zyon headed toward a narrow path on the far side of the cliff where the cabin sat. The trail was rugged, leading directly toward the forest belt above that stretched toward the summit.

  Zyon moved ahead without adjusting his pace.

  Behind him, Zio felt the difference. The first few steps were unremarkable. But as they ascended, his stride grew heavier. He noticed his breathing begin to shift. The movement of his legs and his breath fell out of sync.

  He did not stop.

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  Zyon glanced back, the tip of his wooden staff piercing the snow beneath his feet.

  "Don't force your lungs just yet," he said. "Let your body adjust to the air here."

  Zio nodded, his hand pressing against his chest.

  "Want to continue?" Zyon asked. "If not, we head back to the cabin."

  "Continue," Zio answered, his voice barely audible.

  The wind gusted again from above.

  Zio slowly began to close the gap between him and Zyon.

  Step by step, his breath and his stride began to find a rhythm. The physique he had forged through years in Greyhollow was slowly adapting to the extreme temperatures of the Northern Mountains.

  Eventually, they reached the upper stretch. The pine trees above the cabin grew with ample space between them, their branches cradling layers of snow that had yet to fall. Every time the wind passed through the trunks, Zio caught the scent of wood and frozen needles.

  Zio drew a breath. The cold air touched his nostrils, descended into his chest, and stopped abruptly. He exhaled slowly while continuing to walk.

  He no longer felt the sharp ache, only a subtle, fine pressure.

  Zyon slowed his pace. "Here."

  Zio glanced at the ground before them. Some parts were covered in packed snow; others were marked by the faint imprints of tracks, both small and large.

  Zyon stopped at a small level clearing, wide enough to stand without losing balance. He planted his staff into the earth and turned around.

  Zio stopped two paces in front of him. His chest was heaving visibly now.

  "From now on, every day, you will go up and down from the cabin to this spot," Zyon stated.

  Zio looked up. Zyon’s face was as calm as ever.

  "Until you can manage twenty laps in a single day," Zyon added.

  Zio swallowed the saliva that wasn't there.

  "Don't force it on the first day. Build your tolerance, bit by bit."

  "As for food, I will provide it for now."

  Zio nodded slowly. He took another breath, letting it in as far as it would go, then releasing it without force.

  “So you’ve grown accustomed,” Zyon noted.

  “A little,” Zio replied.

  They stood for a moment in silence. The wind passed, swaying the branches, shaking loose small grains of snow that shattered upon hitting the ground.

  Zio felt the pressure in his chest begin to subside, not because the air had changed, but because his body had stopped demanding more than what was available.

  They descended the path together.

  "Don't run. Just walk normally for now," Zyon said as he stepped back into the cabin.

  Zio stood, swallowing hard, facing the trail. He took his first step.

  Time passed as the sun began its descent.

  Zio was on his third lap when he began the descent. His legs trembled violently, his vision blurred, his breathing was a wreck. He tumbled and rolled down the slope before reaching the bottom.

  Zyon emerged after hearing the sound of the fall. He lifted Zio and carried him back into the cabin.

  Only three were counted that day.

  Weeks passed. The trail remained.

  The snow thinned, then returned, but the path stayed the same.

  The eleventh lap began without ceremony.

  His first steps were steady. Bootprints pressed into the snow in the same spacing as the day before. Breath in through the nose. Out through the mouth. Short. Measured.

  Midway up the incline, his left knee lagged.

  Not enough to stumble. Just enough to break the rhythm.

  His weight tipped forward faster than the next step could catch.

  He stopped.

  Hands on his thighs. Fingers numb against the fabric. Breath stalled halfway in, then spilled out rough and uneven. A dry sound scraped his throat.

  He stayed still until the trembling in his vision settled.

  The next step was shorter.

  His right boot met snow sooner than expected. His balance slipped.

  Knee to ground. Shoulder followed.

  Then the side of his head.

  The air left his lungs all at once. His mouth opened. Nothing came in.

  His chest worked fast. Empty.

  Fingers dug into the snow. The world narrowed, dark at the edges, sharp at the center. A faint ringing crept in.

  The first breath came late and too deep. His throat burned. His chest jerked, then dropped.

  He didn’t move.

  The path behind him remained empty. No footsteps came down from above.

  Snow softened beneath his shoulder. Meltwater crept through the coat, cold against his back. The next breath arrived on its own, still broken.

  Eventually, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself upright.

  When he tried to stand, his left knee folded. He waited. The shaking passed.

  He turned back down the trail without looking up.

  Two days later, fresh tracks appeared again.

  The next lap was slower. He paused at every bend. Once, his palm pressed against a pine trunk. The bark scraped through his glove.

  On the descent, his arm missed its timing.

  Shoulder hit first.

  He landed hard, breath tearing out of him in a hoarse rasp.

  A short laugh escaped him.

  Once. Dry.

  Another morning, bile stained the snow beside the trail. Clear fluid, sharp-smelling. He nudged it aside and kept moving.

  Zyon stood several paces away, his staff planted in the snow. He watched until Zio finished, then turned back toward the cabin without a word.

  Later that week, he sat longer than usual against a flat stone. Head bowed. Breath audible, uneven. Fingertips dull with cold.

  When he stood, the world dimmed for a moment. He waited until the horizon steadied.

  That evening, he reached the cabin after the light had gone. He didn’t remove his coat. He slid down the wall and stayed there.

  The hearth was cold. The embers had been pressed flat, smothered before they could catch again.

  The next morning, his first breath caught halfway. His chest tightened. He waited.

  The second breath came.

  His boots were already tied.

  On the climb, he stopped earlier than before. He didn’t fall. He didn’t sit.

  He stood, hands gripping the edge of his coat, breath loud in the thin air.

  Then he turned back.

  From the cabin above, no signal came to stop him.

  The following morning, new tracks cut into the snow once more.