I hear my mother’s voice calling me from the fields, the warmth of the afternoon sun on my back.
Jab, jab, cross.
I hear the creak of the old wooden floor in our home, the scent of fresh bread in the air, my father sharpening his tools at the table. The smell of dirt and earth, the way my hands would sink into the soil as we worked. The quiet peace of it.
I swallow it down—rage, grief, whatever it is.
Jab, jab, cross.
The image of my parents flickers behind my eyes. They are gone. Killed when the village was destroyed, when the screams of my people tore through the night, when the only home I had ever known was turned to dust.
I should have died with them.
“Again,” Thane orders.
The ache in my arms deepens, but it doesn’t matter. I need this.
Somewhere between the rhythmic pounding of my fists against the striking post, between the burning in my shoulders and the sweat sliding down my spine, anger starts to seep in. It begins as a slow simmer, then builds, hotter, sharper, coiling in my chest.
Jab, jab, cross.
I see my mother’s hands, dirt-stained and calloused, reaching for me one last time.
Jab, jab, cross.
I see my father standing in the doorway, sword raised, firelight flickering in his eyes.
Jab, jab, cross.
I hear the screams. The fire. The sound of steel cutting through flesh.
The pounding of my fists grows harder. Faster.
Why didn’t my powers awaken sooner? Why did it have to be after?
Pain sears through my knuckles, but I don’t stop.
They died because of me. Because I wasn’t ready. Because I wasn’tenough.
“Again,” Thane commands, voice like stone.
My chest heaves, my arms trembling, but I step forward and hit again. I let out a sharp breath, the edges of my vision burning.
In the middle of all of it, tears start to fall. They blur my vision, slipping down my cheeks. I don’t even notice at first, not until I taste the salt on my lips. Not until my breath catches, ragged and broken.
I bite down on my cheek hard, trying to push it down the way I’ve done since the night everything was taken from me. But it’s too late.
It’s spilling out. Strike by strike. Like water. Like fire. Like everything I’ve been holding back since the world cracked open and left me behind.
I hit the post again, but the force is different now—something shattered.
My body is shaking. My breath comes in uneven, shaky gasps between punches. I can’t blink the tears away fast enough. The ache in my muscles is nothing compared to the ache in my chest.
The tears keep falling. I can’t stop them. I can’t stop any of it.
Jab, jab, cross.
I hit the post again, the impact vibrating through my knuckles, through my wrists, through every part of me that feels like breaking.
