The courtyard was empty when Lira arrived.
No Kael. No whispers. Just Seren, waiting with a cold smile and a dozen weapons lined in a row.
Lira's boots scraped the stone as she stepped forward. "What are we doing today?"
Seren tossed her a staff. "Survival."
The first blow came without warning.
It cracked against her side, knocking her breath loose. She stumbled, raised her staff—too slow.
The second hit struck her shoulder.
Lira didn't fall.
She bled.
She learned.
By the third strike, she ducked. On the fifth, she blocked. On the seventh, she retaliated—barely missing.
Each swing Seren delivered was precise. Intentional. Never lethal. Just enough to bruise. To wear her down.
"Again," Seren said when she collapsed. "Up."
Lira rose, breath shallow, body screaming.
She wasn't strong enough yet. But she would be.
Because every blow was fuel. Every bruise was a promise.
Kael wasn't watching—but she imagined him behind those high walls. Imagined his hand twitching, his silence. His restraint.
And it made her swing harder.
At sunset, Seren lowered her weapon. "You're not as weak as I thought."
"I'm not what you think at all," Lira replied.
She didn't break under the pain.
But later, alone in her cell, she pressed trembling fingers to a purple bruise on her ribs and whispered, "Almost."
Almost broke.
Almost quit.
Almost ran.
But tomorrow, she'd rise again.
With the same fire.
And a sharper blade behind her back.