Maris watched the door swing shut, gooseflesh rising on her arms. Maris let out a shaky breath, shoulders stiff.
The Wraith twins were still there, watching with blank masks, patient as stone.
“Well?” she bit out, voice sharper than she meant.
One Wraith inclined her head, gesturing silently toward the door.
“Come,” they said in unison, that echoing voice making her skin crawl. “The yard waits.”
They guided her through the maze of hallways — moon-silver tapestries catching the first hints of dawn, ancient suits of armor lined up like silent judges. The air was cold enough to bite at her lips, carrying the distant clang of steel and the low murmur of nightbound voices.
The training yard was already alive with sound.
There were practice rings of smooth black stone, separated by pale gravel pathways. Archery targets ringed one edge of the courtyard, painted with runes that glowed faintly in the weak sunlight. Farther down, rows of dummies stood ready for sword forms, their straw bellies long shredded by eager blades.
A fountain in the shape of a coiled serpent poured a constant trickle of silver water into a basin, its hiss adding to the clamor of boots, voices, and steel.
Maris sucked in a breath.
Warriors in fitted leathers moved through drills with lethal grace, their movements so precise she almost forgot they were killers bred for war. The smell of sweat, metal, and crushed herbs clung to the courtyard, sharp in her nose.
Waiting at the far end, Astrielle stood like a carved statue, her copper-red hair catching a glint of light, eyes narrowed in that hawk’s gaze.
Maris kept walking to where she had worked the day prior.
You will not break, she reminded herself, even if every bruise still burned.
The generals Corin and Riven strode across the yard, grim and intimidating. Riven with his boulder-like shoulders, hair in that coal-black braid, tattoos marking his loyalty. Corin, lean and wolf-like, silver-flecked hair catching the dawn, scar drawing a harsh line across his otherwise handsome face.
“Your ours again it would seem,” Corin chuckled, voice ringing through the courtyard.
Maris forced herself not to flinch.
"It would appear so," she whispered.
For hours, they made her repeat every move.
The rhythm of it was punishing: strike, dodge, recover, again, again, again. Her palms burned where the dagger hilt bit in, and her shoulders ached until she thought they might tear free.
She stumbled. Corin swept her feet out from under her with a single movement, sending her sprawling on the cold stone.
“Up,” he growled.
Maris grit her teeth and rose.
Riven corrected her stance with one meaty hand, near lifting her off her feet to reset her shoulders.
“Don’t stand like a dying bird,” he barked.
By the time the sun stood high and bright in the courtyard, she was dizzy from effort.
Valea appeared from the castle doors and called a halt, nodding once.
“Enough,” she said. “Lessons now. with the lorekeeper, my lady.”
Maris tried to catch her breath, wiping sweat from her face with trembling hands.
The Wraiths reappeared to guide her from the yard, their silent steps brushing across gravel.
