The sun rose higher than usual for morning in Murkrest, casting a rare, hazy light through the mist. The villagers were busy gathering supplies, passing sacks and baskets down a line of outstretched hands, their voices blending with the distant croak of frogs and rustle of wind through the trees.

Agan watched from his spot near the village’s main fire pit, his fingers itching to help but unsure if he’d be more of a hindrance. The task today was a daunting one—hauling freshly cut logs from the marsh edge up to the village for a new hut. It was hard, backbreaking work, and usually left to the strongest of Murkrest’s hunters. But the hunting party was away, leaving only the villagers who could be spared to carry the burden.

“Agan! Quit staring and get over here!” Nara’s voice rang out, impatient and teasing. She stood at the edge of the line, her hands braced on her hips, her face smudged with dirt and sweat.

Grinning despite himself, Agan jogged over, catching up the length of rope she threw his way. She’d already looped hers around one of the logs, her muscles straining as she steadied her stance.

“Help me out!” she said, rolling her eyes at his hesitation. “These logs aren’t getting lighter.”

Agan wrapped his rope around the log, bracing himself as he took one end. Together they heaved the log up, shoulders pressed against the carrying poles, and began to make their way along the narrow path back to the village center. The weight was crushing—Agan felt it in his legs, his arms, in every step he took—but he gritted his teeth and kept pace, focusing on the rhythm of each step.

They moved in silence, save for the labored sounds of their breaths. Occasionally, Nara would mutter something under her breath, a curse or a word of encouragement, though her eyes stayed fixed ahead, her face set in determination. The log was heavy, but Agan didn’t want to let her see him struggling.

The last stretch was the hardest, the mud slick beneath their feet as they climbed the slight rise leading into the village. By the time they reached the building site, Agan’s shoulders were numb, his arms trembling. They dropped the log with a heavy thud, and he doubled over, gasping for breath.

“Not bad for a first haul,” Nara said, flashing him a quick grin. “Thought you’d fall flat on your face halfway here.”

Agan scowled, too tired to retort, though a faint grin tugged at his lips. “Maybe if you’d pulled harder, I wouldn’t have had to drag it myself.”

She shoved his shoulder playfully, laughing, and they both fell back against the log, taking a brief moment to rest before another shout drew their attention. Gera, one of the village elders, was heading their way, her arms folded, an unimpressed look in her eye.

“You two think you’re done?” she called, her tone brisk. “There’s more where that came from.”

Agan groaned, but he got to his feet, a grim sense of determination settling over him. He glanced at Nara, who rolled her eyes, but together they made their way back down the path, ready for another haul.

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By the time they finished hauling the last log, the sun was sinking toward the treetops, casting long shadows across the clearing. Agan’s arms were sore, his muscles burning with exhaustion, but a sense of satisfaction lingered beneath the ache. They’d done it, each load heavier than the last, each step harder, but he’d managed to keep going, to push past the ache.

As evening fell, the villagers gathered around the fire pit, passing around bowls of stew, their voices a quiet murmur as they traded stories of the day. Agan sat beside his mother, his head drooping as he savored the warmth of the stew, his eyelids heavy with fatigue.

“You kept up well today,” his mother said softly, nudging him. “You’re getting stronger, Agan.”

He gave a tired nod, his eyes fixed on the flames. He could still feel the strain in his arms, the dull ache that throbbed through his shoulders, but he was too worn out to complain. Instead, he leaned back, letting the warmth of the fire wash over him as he listened to the quiet murmur of the villagers’ voices.

They spoke of old hunts, of the long treks they’d taken through the swamp, and of close calls and narrow escapes from creatures that prowled the deeper woods. Agan listened intently, though his eyelids grew heavier with each passing word, his mind drifting in and out of focus.

The hunters returned late, slipping into the gathering with quiet nods of greeting. Tarek found a seat beside Agan, his face streaked with mud, his eyes sharp as he scanned the group. He caught Agan’s gaze and gave him a nod of acknowledgment.

“I heard you pulled more than your weight today,” Tarek said, his tone light. “Gera said you handled yourself well.”

Agan shrugged, trying to ignore the rush of pride that welled up in his chest. “It was harder than I thought. I thought I’d be stronger by now.”

Tarek gave him a sidelong glance, a faint smile on his lips. “If it was easy, there wouldn’t be much point in doing it, would there?”

Agan mulled this over, a faint spark of satisfaction settling into the tired ache in his muscles. He hadn’t expected hauling logs to feel like an accomplishment, but there was something about the weight of it, the steady rhythm of their steps, that made the strain feel worthwhile.

As the fire burned low, the villagers drifted off to their huts, their voices fading into the night as quiet settled over the village once more. Agan stayed beside the fire for a few moments longer, his gaze fixed on the embers as they glowed softly in the dark.

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Later that night, lying on his mat in the dim warmth of his family’s hut, Agan felt the day’s exhaustion weighing on him, a deep, steady ache that wrapped around him like a heavy blanket. But sleep didn’t come easily.

His mind was alive, racing with fragments of the day, with snatches of conversation and flickers of memory. He remembered the weight of the logs, the burn in his arms, the feeling of Nara’s shoulder against his as they heaved each load up the muddy path. He’d pulled his weight—hadn’t faltered, hadn’t quit. But it felt like something more than just hard work.

He wanted to be someone who mattered, someone strong, capable, more than just a helper. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that the village alone wouldn’t satisfy him forever. There was a restless hunger gnawing at him, a need to know more, to understand what lay beyond Murkrest, beyond the familiar paths of his everyday life.

Clenching his fists, he ran his fingers over the calluses that had already begun to form on his palms, feeling the rough texture as he turned them over. They were marks of work, of growth, of something earned with effort.

As he stared up at the thatched roof, a quiet resolve settled over him. He wasn’t just going to grow strong for the village, to haul logs or hunt game. He was going to be more. Whatever it took, whatever he had to learn, he was ready for it.

One day, he would find his way beyond the misted edges of Murkrest.