Page 23

I can do it.The vow pulses in my veins. I survived them once; I’ll do it again, this time on my own terms.

A knock on the door breaks my reverie. My heart flips, but this time I don’t scramble for a weapon. Instead, I approach with measured caution, calling out, “Who is it?”

“It’s Helrath,” comes the brusque reply. “May I enter?”

I glance at the time, surprised to hear from him so late in the day. He typically ends training sessions by mid-afternoon. “Yes,” I say, unlocking the door.

He stands in the threshold, arms crossed over his narrow chest. He’s dressed in the typical House Draeven black, but his features are sharper than most, with a long scar across his neck. Those colorless eyes sweep over my chamber, betraying neither approval nor scorn, but I sense mild curiosity.

“Nice place,” he mutters, stepping inside. “Better than you had in the lower halls.”

I close the door behind him, not quite locking it since we’re both inside. “Yes, Vaelorian moved me here.”

His eyes flicks to me, mouth twisting wryly. “I’m aware. Word travels fast. He told me to see if you need additional drills tonight, but if you’re too tired?—”

I straighten my shoulders, ignoring the ache in my muscles. “I can handle more training if it’s necessary.”

A faint spark of amusement lights his eyes. “Is that so?”

I nod. “I promised I’d do whatever it takes, and I meant it.”

He tilts his head, considering. “You’ve got spirit. Most humans wouldn’t volunteer for an extra beating.”

I exhale a humorless laugh. “I’ve already endured enough humiliations. The difference this time is that I might actually gain something from the pain.”

For a moment, his stony facade cracks, revealing a glimmer of respect. “Very well,” he says. “Meet me in the southern courtyard in half an hour. We’ll focus on defensive maneuvers.”

Before I can answer, he turns to leave. At the threshold, he glances over his shoulder. “You might want to lose the fancy tunic. We’ll be grappling in the dirt.”

I stifle a groan but manage a polite nod. “Understood.”

Helrath departs, leaving the door ajar. I let out a shaky sigh and sink onto the edge of the bed for a moment. Extra training? My body already feels like I’ve been pounded by an orc battalion. But if I want to stand a chance in infiltration—especially infiltration that could turn physical at any moment—I need these skills.

Better than remaining powerless.I remind myself of that whenever doubts creep in.

Half an hour later, I’m in the southern courtyard. It’s smaller than the main yard used by most House Draeven soldiers, ringed by thick walls that block the wind. A half-dozen torches line the perimeter, though none are lit yet because sunlight still lingers. The ground is packed earth with scattered patches of dusty gravel. I suspect this courtyard is reserved for more private training, as I see no onlookers or passing guards.

I’ve donned simpler, tighter-fitting garments—sans House Draeven embroidery—and pulled my hair back. Helrath stands near the center, arms folded, posture relaxed but coiled with potential energy.

“Thought you wouldn’t show,” he says when he sees me.

I snort, stepping closer. “I’m here. Let’s get it over with.”

Without further ado, he motions for me to drop into a defensive stance. “Show me what you remember from our last session.”

I do my best to recall the footwork he drilled into me. My body protests every movement, but I clench my teeth and push through. Helrath circles, launching half-hearted jabs that I’m supposed to evade or block.

His speed increases with each pass. Twice, I dodge successfully, rolling to the side. The third time, he cracks me on the shoulder with the back of his hand, sending me stumbling. I catch myself before falling.

“Keep your center low,” he growls. “You’re listing like a drunk. Again.”

I reset my stance, ignoring the bruise likely forming on my shoulder. Helrath surges forward, hooking an arm to test my guard. I twist away, but he pivots faster, grabbing my forearm. In a heartbeat, he yanks me off-balance. I manage to plant a foot before face-planting in the dirt, but it’s not graceful.

“Sloppy,” he mutters. “Your reaction time is too slow.”

Panting, I raise my head. “Any helpful advice?”

His mouth twists in a crooked smile. “Suffer enough bruises, and you’ll learn to move faster.”