“Thanks,” I mumble, pulling them on.
“They’re not going to go easy on you,” he says under his breath. “So don’t ask them to.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
His eyes linger for half a second longer, unreadable, before he nods and steps away.
I stare at him for a moment before taking a deep breath, mentally preparing for the day,
The warmup is brutal. Burpees, core drills, balance holds, quick-feet ladder sprints. I lose count after the first round. My lungs burn. My calves scream. But I keep going. Because none of them stop. And if I’m really part of this team now… I can’t be the weakest link. I refuse.
“Ashthorne!” Wren barks.
I glance up, startled.
“Center mat. Now.”
I jog over, glancing toward the others. Noah looks up from his set. Luca’s already bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s hoping I’ll get my ass kicked. Jace watches me closely. Tex doesn’t even blink.
Wren holds up a pair of sparring batons. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I take them. The mat is colder than I expected.
Wren tosses me a set, lighter than they look, but solid in my grip. My palms are already slick with sweat, and I haven’t even thrown a strike yet. She doesn’t give me time to adjust.
“Ready stance,” she says sharply.
I square my shoulders, knees bent, weight balanced like Luca showed me once in the lounge when he was showing off.
Wren nods. Then she moves.
Fast.
I barely block the first strike — a downward arc aimed at my shoulder — but it sends a jolt through my arms anyway. I stumble back two steps, breath knocked out of me before we’ve even started.
She doesn’t stop.
A swipe at my ribs. A twist at my ankle. I pivot awkwardly, managing to stay on my feet, but my defense is clumsy. Unrefined. Every block is a second too slow. Every strike I attempt is batted away with precise, minimal effort.
It’s like sparring a ghost with knives.
“Feet,” she snaps. “Too slow.”
I grit my teeth and readjust. She goes low next, a sweeping kick that knocks my balance sideways. I hit the mat hard.
Luca lets out a soft, sympathetic whistle from the edge. “She’s still conscious. That’s a win.”
“Get up,” Wren says.
I do. Again, and again. She doesn’t go easy on me. Not even close.
But somewhere in the chaos, the clatter of batons, the sting of bruises blooming under my sleeves, something clicks. A strike lands. Light, but clean. A flick of my wrist catches her off guard just long enough for me to pivot out of her range.
She doesn’t praise it. But she doesn’t stop me either. We circle again.
I block her next hit high, drive my baton low toward her side, and miss by inches. She knocks me back hard enough I almost trip, but I don’t. I steady. Plant. Push forward again.
By the end of the round, I’m heaving. Drenched. Shaking.
