I wipe my palms and nod.
I will get this right.
We keep going until midday.
By the time we stop, I can feel it—the difference. Where the power once scattered through me, wild and overwhelming, it now runscloser to the bone. It still drains me. But I’m learning how to carry it.
After a midday meal, I meet Thane for my first lesson in combat. The training room at the outpost is unlike anywhere I’ve ever trained before. It isn’t just a place for practice—it’s a space that has shaped warriors.
The room is wide and utilitarian, designed purely for strength, endurance, and sparring.
The stone floor is worn smooth by years of boots and blades, but it still bears its history—grooves left by weapons, deep scratches from heavy boots, faded blood-dark stains.
Weapon racks line the walls: swords, axes, daggers, and spears, each blade gleaming from meticulous care. Shields hang nearby, dented and scarred, still carrying the weight of the lastblow they endured.
Training dummies stand like sentries along the perimeter—some straw-filled, others leather-wrapped, all scarred from repeated use. A few hang suspended by chains, swaying faintly, like they’re waiting for the next fight.
To one side, a strength zone holds weighted stones, resistance bands, and thick wooden beams for balance drills. A towering pull-up bar anchors the space—ropes and rings dangling from its frame, built for pain and precision.
Sparring mats cover the center of the room; wide enough to allow full combat maneuvers, yet small enough to force fighters to rely on strategy, agility, and technique.
Along the far wall, a raised observation platform overlooks the space—built for warriors to watch, assess, and call out challenges. Benches rest beneath it, worn smooth where fighters have wrapped hands, sharpened blades, or traded barbed remarks between training bouts.
The air is thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and oiled steel. Despite its size, the room feels close, intimate—meant for warriors to test themselves without the distractions of the outside world.
The training room is empty except for the two of us. No spectators. No murmuring soldiers. No eyes watching my every move. I should feel at ease—instead, I feel exposed.
Thane stands across from me, his stance too relaxed to be casual. His eyes, though, are sharp and already calculating.
“What’s your training history?” he asks, voice even.
I shift my stance, flexing my fingers. “I trained at my village.”
His brow lifts. The smallest flicker of interest. “With who?”
“Anyone who could teach. You know how it is in the villages,” I say, shrugging. “Everyone learns the basics—blade work, blocks, how to hold your ground if it comes to that.”
I glance at him, then down at my hands.
“Some train more. Some only enough to survive. But we don’t get to wait around hoping the Shadow Forces skip us.” My tone flattens. “Most of us never have to use it.”
I meet his gaze again. “But we all learn.”
Thane nods slightly, as if that answer was expected. “Weapons?”
“I know how to use a sword,” I say, “but I trained mostly with a staff and daggers.”
His eyes flick over me, assessing. “Hand-to-hand?”
I hesitate. “Some.”
His lips twitch slightly—not quite a smirk, but close. “Good. Then let’s see what you know.”
He steps onto the mat, rolling his wrists. The crack of his knuckles breaks the silence.
“No weapons this time. Just you and me.”
I nod, flexing my fingers, rolling onto the balls of my feet.
