The knock came just past dawn.
Three brisk raps, then the door creaked open on its own. Grim rarely waited for an answer.
Ilys groaned, dragging the blanket up over her head. The fire in the hearth had long since gone out, and the stone floor sucked what little warmth remained from the room.
“Ilys.” Grim’s voice nicked her rest, breaking like a snap of frost underfoot.
She refused to answer.
“You’ve five minutes to dress and meet me in the yard,” he said. “If you’re not there, I’ll drag you out by the heels.”
She poked her head out, hair a tangled mess.
“I’m not training today,” she announced, pulling the blanket back over herself.
Grim stepped further into the room. His tunic soaked and veil hanging loose around his neck with a sword belt slung across his back.
“No?” he asked. “And why’s that?”
She turned to face the wall. “We don’t fight. The condemned are bound. The King doesn't ask me to swing like a butcher. It does not make sense to train as we do.”
He paused then, he strode to the bed and yanked the blanket away in one sharp motion.
She shrieked and curled into herself as the cold bit down. “Grim!”
“Get up.”
“You’re cruel.”
“They are not always bound, Ilys. When you embark on the Veilmarch you will cry in gratitude for my training.” He turned his nose up. “You are too soft.”
She sat up, shivering, glaring daggers at his back as he turned and made for the door.
Back to her, he strode from the room. “Ten minutes. Dress warm. It’s a hard frost.” The door shut behind him with a final, solid thud.
Ilys groaned at the sight of the training ground cloaked in cool, whitish mist. She found the timing too early, the setting too muggy, and Grim to be an utter ass. The aforementioned ass stood in the center of the ring, waiting. As she trudged forward, he only tossed her a sword with a short nod.
She caught it and let it drop against her side. “I’m here. You need not be so dower.”
“Take your stance.”
“No good morning?”
“I don’t waste words.”
She muttered a coarse insult under her breath but obeyed, stepping into place, shoulders tense.
He walked a slow circle around her, appraising her posture like a blacksmith eyeing a flawed blade.
“Too stiff.”
“I’m cold.”
“Then warm up faster.”
She adjusted, scowling. Grim nudged her elbow, tapped her wrist, shifted her boot with the toe of his own.
“You swing like your sword’s made of pudding.”
