“Better,” he says. “But you’re still too rigid. Defense isn’t just about strength. It’s about movement.” He circles me, watching, waiting. “Watch my shoulders, not my hands.”
I focus, tracking him, trying to see the next move before it comes.
“Your opponent’s arms move too fast,” he continues. “The chest, the stance—that’s where the attack starts. That’s where you read them.”
I nod, breath coming faster, sweat clinging to my skin. I see the shift in his shoulders before the punch comes. I start to move but hesitate. His strike lands. Not hard, not full force, but enough to send me stumbling back.
I hiss through my teeth.
You need to do better. You have to.
I reset. But the doubt creeps in—sharp, familiar.
I’m not supposed to be here. I was supposed to be home.But home is gone.
And so are they.
A sharp jab to my ribs snaps me back to reality. I barely block in time, my breath catching from the sudden impact.
“Still slow,” Thane says, stepping back.
I exhale sharply, anger curling inside me, but not at him. At myself.
“You hesitate,” Thane says. “That’s the difference between standing and falling.”
My jaw tightens.Valen said that too.Gods, do they rehearse these lines?
I swallow hard. I can’t afford to fall. If I don’t learn—if I don’t get stronger—then my parents’ deaths will have meant nothing. Not just my parents—everyone who died that night the village was attacked.
I tighten my fists. “Again.”
Thane nods once. And then he moves.
That evening, the mess hall hums with conversation. Laughter at one table, quiet talk at another. The clatter of bowls and wooden utensils fills the space, the now familiar scent of roasted meat, fresh bread, and simmering vegetables thick in the air.
I sink onto the bench beside Lyra, every muscle aching. My legs are lead. My shoulders burn. My hands—throbbing.
I reach for my cup. My fingers tremble. Just a little.
Lyra doesn’t say anything at first, just eyes me as she tears a chunk of bread in half. Then her gaze drops to my arms.
I don’t have to look to know what she sees—bruises formingbeneath the surface, the deep ache settling into my bones after hours of blocking, dodging, and getting knocked off my feet.
She exhales through her nose, shaking her head. “You look like hell.”
I huff a quiet laugh, lifting my spoon to my lips. “Thanks.”
Lyra doesn’t return the smile. “You’re pushing too hard.”
I don’t answer. Because what’s the alternative?
She rips another piece of bread, eyes still fixed on me. “Let me guess—Thane?”
I grunt.
Lyra sighs, leaning forward, lowering her voice. “You’re not going to get stronger if you break yourself first.”
I sip my water, forcing my fingers to stay steady around the cup. “I don’t have a choice.”
