The sound of fists meeting flesh echoed in the cold stone courtyard.
"Again."
Her voice was sharp, unyielding—iron forged in war.
Three boys stood bloodied and bruised in the center of the training square, surrounded by cracked tiles and the silence of watching shadows. Jared's knuckles were scraped raw, his hands trembling. Liam's lip was split, a faint line of red tracing his chin. He fought to keep his face steady.
Oliver stood motionless. Not untouched, but unmoved.
Their mother stood before them. Her face, once soft, had been chiseled into something hard and unrelenting. Her robe hung heavy with dried blood at the edges, her hair braided so tightly not even the wind dared shift it.
"Jared," she barked. "If I see another tear, I'll break your ribs myself. Pain is nothing. Only weakness breaks you."
Jared swallowed hard, his fists clenching tighter as he forced himself to nod.
She stepped toward Liam, yanked his chin up roughly.
