I walk slowly, each step an effort against protesting muscles. As I approach, his posture shifts the smallest amount—feet planted wider, spine straightening, radiating authority. I stop before him, keeping a cautious distance.
For a long moment, he simply stares at me. “You’re with me.” I nod. “Have you ever had any physical combat training?” he continues, and I’m unsure why he wouldn’t know that. Unless he’s aiming to embarrass me more.
Haven’t had his fill yet today.
I shake my head and answer anyway. “No. If that wasn’t obvious.”
“It was.” The statement hangs between us, impassive and damning. “Your form and reactionary defense are terrible, and you have no offense to speak of.”
Wayto make a girl feel good about herself, I think, bitter. I already know all this. I don’t need him to list my inadequacies again when I’m painfully aware of each one. I’ve spent my entire life in a house with three other people, never running, never fighting, never building more than a fraction of the strength or endurance these men take for granted.
“That’s precisely why you were put in my afternoon group.” Duh. “You need the most work. But I don’t have timefor projects, so you have one week to show improvement, or you’re out.”
One week? Is he fucking serious?
Seven meager days to transform from Cassia the sheltered woman to Lachlan the capable Enforcer. That’s impossible.
I don’t say the thoughts out loud, nodding once, not trusting my voice.
Arayik reaches behind his back and produces two staffs—long, straight poles made of some light but durable material. They’re hollow in the center, which should make them easier to wield, but I suspect they’ll make a terrible racket when struck together. My head already aches from Brenner’s punch; I’m not looking forward to the additional assault on my senses.
“We’ll start with these,” he says, holding one out to me. “The staff gives you more surface area for contact, improving your chances of connecting. It also forces proper balance and teaches reactionary defense. Master this, and you’ll have the foundation for any weapon.”
His explanation is actually…helpful; more instructive than I expected from him. Perhaps he’s not completely terrible at teaching, just impatient with those he deems unworthy of his time.
“Ready?” Why would he care?
I’m not, but I confirm anyway, gripping the staff as firmly as I can. It’s almost weightless in my hands, though longer than anticipated. I mimic what I think is a defensive stance, positioning the staff diagonally across my body as I swallow heaps of bile.
The Commander doesn’t give me time to second-guess my form. He moves with startling speed, his staff whistling through the air as it arcs toward me. I barely manage to lift mine in time, the impact when they connect sending painful vibrations up my arms. The sound is sharp and loud, making me wince.
His crinkled eyes suggest he wasn’t even using his full strength, I realize with dismay. That was a test swing, a probing attack to assess my reflexes, and I almost missed it.
My feet stumble backward, creating space to think and plan my next move. But Arayik gives me no opportunity. His attacks come faster now, more deliberate, each one probing a different angle of my defense and hurting worse than the last. He’s methodically exploiting my weaknesses, showing me exactly how exposed I am.
My mind catalogs his pattern—a slight shift in his weight before he strikes, a minute adjustment in his grip—but this knowledge doesn’t translate to effective defense. My responses are too slow, arms not sturdy enough to absorb the impacts as needed.
He spins, quicker than someone his size should be able to move, feinting toward my head. I raise my staff to block, only to realize too late it’s a trap. The other end of his staff sweeps low, catching behind my ankles and yanking my feet from under me.
I crash to the ground, landing hard on my back to only once again struggle for air. My attempt to inhale only triggers a coughing fit, my lungs refusing to cooperate. Panic flares, but gradually my diaphragm remembers its job, and thin sips of air make it to my starving body.
Still wheezing, I push up, only to find Arayik casually leaning on his staff, watching me struggle. I cannot discern his expression, but the relaxed posture radiates smug satisfaction. He’s not exerted himself in the slightest.
The bastard.
Something hot and angry unfurls in my chest. He’s playing with me—not teaching or training, just demonstrating his superiority. I’m a mouse being batted around by a particularly sadistic cat—and that pisses me off.
I am not here to be toyed with. Nor am I here to entertain hisego. I’m here for information and opportunity, to help women like my mother escape those disgusting facilities. His opinion of me means nothing as long as I achieve my goals.
Rising fully to my feet, I reclaim my staff with steadier hands. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me quit.
“Again,” I demand, my voice rougher than I intended.
A slight tilt of his mask is the only indication of surprise before he nods once.
This time, I analyze his stance more carefully. He holds the staff with his left hand forward, right hand back, creating a fulcrum for maximum leverage. His weight rests primarily on his back foot, allowing quick pivots and direction changes.
Then he advances again, but I’m ready now.
