I look at him.
“No,” I say. “You’re not.”
His shoulders tighten slightly, like he expects the rest of that to land harder.
“You’re worse,” I add.
That gets a reaction.
Confusion.
A flash of offense.
Good.
“Soldiers wait for orders,” I continue, pacing slowly in front of them. “You don’t get that. You move or you die.”
“That’s not helpful,” another mutters under his breath.
I stop in front of him.
“No,” I say quietly. “It’s accurate.”
He doesn’t look away.
Good.
“Again,” I say.
They move.
Cleaner this time.
Still uneven.
But learning.
Lyria steps in then, brushing past one of them to reposition another without asking.
“Switch them out,” she says, her voice lower than mine but cutting just as clean. She doesn’t look at me, just nods toward the group waiting behind them. “They’re burning out.”
“They’re improving,” I reply.
She finally glances at me, one brow lifting slightly.
“They’re shaking,” she says, tilting her head toward the man whose hands are starting to tremble. “That’s not improvement. That’s exhaustion pretending to be focused.”
I follow her gaze.
She’s right.
Of course she is.
“Rotate,” I say, stepping back.
The group exhales, stepping away, replaced by another set—less tired, more uncertain.
Lyria moves with them immediately, adjusting their grips before they even settle.
