I walk to the practice dummy in the center of the mat and I raise the staff. For a second I just stand there, holding it, feeling the grain of the wood against my palms.
Then I swing.
The first hit sends vibrations up my arms. The wood connects with the dummy's shoulder with a solid thud that echoes through the empty hall. It feels good. Real. Like I'm doing something instead of lying in bed waiting to disappear.
I hit it again. Harder this time. Aim for the head. The staff connects with a crack that sounds louder than it is in the empty space.
Again. The ribs. My arms are already starting to burn.
Again. The legs. I miss, the staff whistling past the dummy into empty air, throwing me off balance.
I reset. Plant my feet better. Try again.
No technique. No form. Just rage channeled into motion.
The chapel. The staff slams into the dummy's chest.
The dining hall. Higher, the shoulder.
Nico's smile. The head, hard enough that the dummy rocks.
Every person who laughed. Again. Again.
My breath comes faster. Sweat starts on my skin despite the cold. The muscles in my shoulders are screaming but I don't stop. My palms burn where I grip the staff, skin starting to blister, but the pain is clarifying. Real.
I adjust my grip, try hitting from different angles. High strikes aiming for the head. Low sweeps toward the legs. I try spinning to put my body weight behind it like I've seen in combat class and nearly drop the staff when I lose my momentum.
I fail more than I succeed. The staff slips from my sweaty palms. I miss the dummy entirely and hit air. My shoulders burn. My grip is wrong and I know it but I don't know how to fix it yet.
But I keep going.
I think about Caspian's face when he dismissed me that first night in the dining hall, about Nico's performance in the stairwell with all his warmth and lies, about the room full of people watching my private thoughts displayed like entertainment.
I hit the dummy harder. Find a rhythm. Strike. Recover. Strike. Recover.
My lungs are burning now. My arms shake with each hit. Chalk dust rises from the mat where my feet shuffle and reset.
Nico's betrayal doesn't make me weak. It makes him a coward who had to trick me instead of facing me.
Harder. The staff connects solid and true.
Caspian thinks I'll break. I'll break him instead.
Harder. My shoulders scream protest.
I'm not human. I'm not fully shifter. I'm something else. And I'm going to figure out what.
Harder. One more. One more.
The staff cracks against the dummy and splinters slightly at the point of impact. My palms are raw now, blistering, blood starting where the skin has torn. But the pain feels good, proof that I'm doing something, that I'm here, that I chose to fight instead of fall.
I keep going until my arms shake and my grip fails. The staff slips from my hands and clatters on the floor, the sound loud in the silence.
I stand there breathing hard, sweat cooling on my skin, and I look at my hands.
Blistered. Bleeding. Raw.
Proof of something.
