When he moves this time, I wait until the last possible moment before reacting. Instead of meeting his strike head on, I angle my staff to deflect rather than block, redirecting the force away from my body. It’s still jarring, but less painful than absorbing the direct impact.
The man presses forward with a series of quick strikes—high, low, high again—testing my adaptability. I manage to counter or duck from most of them, though each successful block feels more like luck than skill. I’m just barely keeping up, my brain working faster than my body can execute. Somewhere in this flurry of movement, I spot an opportunity. Arayik over-commits to a forward strike, leaving his right side exposed. It’s probably intentional—a trap for the unwary student—but it’s the only opening I’ve gotten.
I feign a stumble, dropping my guard just enough to make him think I’ve lost my balance. He takes the bait, pressing forward to exploit the weakness. At the last second, I pivot and swing my staff in a controlled path toward his exposed flank.
I don’t expect to actually hit him. I just want to force him toacknowledge that I saw the opening, that I’m capable of strategic thinking even if my execution is amateur.
My staff doesn’t connect—he blocks with annoying ease—but the maneuver forces him a step back to maintain his balance. A minor victory, though it feels monumental.
“Not the worst you’ve exhibited.” His tone is begrudging, but it’s enough that I’ll accept it as a positive compliment.
The momentary pride is short-lived. His next attack comes with renewed intensity, as if he’s decided I no longer need the infant treatment. His staff becomes a blur, striking from angles I can’t anticipate, with a force I can’t match.
One particularly vicious swing knocks my weapon from my hands. The staff clatters to the ground, rolling away, and before I can consider retrieving it, Arayik has circled behind me, his boot connecting square with my back. The impact launches me forward, sending me flying several feet through the air before I crash face-first into the dirt. Soil fills my mouth, gritty and bitter. My back screams with pain, and for a terrifying moment, I wonder if he’s broken something vital.
I roll, my mask shifting upward on my face. I yank it back down, heart racing at the close call. I might have broken bones or crushed organs, and all I can think of is the security of my mask.
What a perfect reflection of my priorities.
“Get up,” Arayik commands with venom. “Enforcers don’t get breaks in the field. If you’re breathing, you’re fighting.”
I struggle to my feet, spitting dirt from my mouth and scraping fingers through the eye slit to clear my vision. I’m so sick of eating mud and dirt.
Finnick and Calder have stopped their own match to watch us. I’m not sure how long Arayik and I have been at this, but the sun has shifted position since Brenner was carried away, creating longer shadows across the yard.
The Commander approaches, both staffs gripped in one hand. Despite his imposing size and clear physical advantage, I hold my ground. He stops before me, too close. His presence is overwhelming—a combination of physical size, unyielding authority, and the complete control he holds over my future here. It would be easy to cower, to submit to his dominance.
I am my mother’s daughter, but submission has never been in my nature.
I hold his gaze, refusing to drop it despite my every instinct begging me to. Let him understand that I might be beaten, but he hasn’t broken me. Not yet, at least. I fear he’ll get there very soon if he keeps this momentum up.
“You’ve got one week to impress me. I do not have time to train anyone who doesn’t want to be here.”
Blood coats my teeth as I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out. Of course I want to be here—though for reasons he’d never understand.
So I simply stay silent and still, accepting his ultimatum without comment.
His eyes study me a moment longer before he straightens and strides away. Even in something as simple as walking, he demonstrates mastery.
My lungs suck in a deep, steadying breath, working to calm my racing heart—the crash after an influx of adrenaline is such an unpleasant experience.
One week.I have one week to transform myself from a woman who’s never fought a day in her life to someone Arayik deems worthy of training.
What a joke.
The odds are impossible. But then, everything about my life and presence here should be impossible.
It seems to be my specialty.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ARAYIK
Asneer forms on my face from their struggle. Three recruits, hanging from the metal bar I selected specifically for its uncomfortable width—too thick to grip easily, yet not wide enough to distribute their weight in a comfortable manner. Sweat glistens on their forearms. Their muscles tremble. This is what separates the strong from the weak.
My gaze shifts to Crowell. The skin around his eyes has flushed to a concerning shade of red, fingers slipping incrementally with each passing minute. Disappointing. As our only Adapter, his body should be conditioned to withstand physical extremes. The northern side of the perimeter is predominantly mountainous—temperatures there drop below freezing even in summer. We need someone who can function in those conditions without supplemental gear.
A flicker of movement draws my attention to Ashford. He readjusts his grip with a subtle jerk that betrays his fatigue. His mask conceals whatever grimace no doubt contorts his piss ugly face, but the tension in his shoulders tells me everything. The weakest of them all, yet somehow still hanging.
