Sweat poured into his eyes. His arms were burning. His ribs ached. His fingers felt raw from the hilt. He was being pushed around the yard like a leaf caught in a gale.
Over and over, Colter came at him. Slam, parry, retreat. Slam, parry, stumble. Collin barely avoided the fence—twice.
And then—
Pain.
A burst of fire below his shoulder. A raw cry tore from his throat. Lumen slipped.
Collin barely caught himself before hitting the ground—but the hilt of Colter’s blade smashed into his chest. Air whooshed out of his lungs. He hit the ground hard, his sword skittering from reach.
And then—cold steel pressed against his neck.
Collin froze.
His heart was still racing. His limbs trembling. Chest throbbing.
“You have good skills,” Sol said calmly, “but you need better discipline.”
The captain motioned.
The guard backed off.
“If that had been a real fight... you’d be dead,” Sol said.
Collin shoved himself upright. Breath tore through his chest, ragged and uneven, the air thick with sweat and acid. His vision swam—not from pain, but the burn of fury unraveling fast beneath his skin.
His gaze locked on Colter’s back, a silent snarl beneath his eyes. Heat pulsed at his temples, curled tight in his chest. He swiped at his brow—quick, careless.
“On your feet!”
The command cracked through him like a slap. What now? His limbs protested as he scrambled upright, fingers stiff with exhaustion as he retrieved Lumen. His face stung where the blood had smeared. Wet. Sticky. Great. Now he looked as defeated as he felt.
Sol didn’t so much as glance at the gash on his arm.
“Go get your bow.”
Collin didn’t hide his sigh. Of course. Why stop at one humiliation?
He stomped to the table, every step dragging. The old bow lay where he’d left it—weathered, splintered at the grip. Barely serviceable. He picked it up anyway, shoulders aching. He selected a few light flint-tipped arrows. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t practiced for this. Bowwork wasn’t his strength. He mostly used it for setting traps or keeping wild dogs off meat stores. If he couldn’t hold his own with a sword, what chance did he have here?
He returned to the yard’s center. A target had been set up—round, white, a tiny red eye staring back like an unblinking omen.
Sol gave no instruction. Just one raised eyebrow, carved deep into a face forged from stone.
Alright then.
Collin loaded an arrow with shaking fingers. The string felt foreign today, unfamiliar. He drew back, squinting. His arms trembled from fatigue, from pain, from humiliation he couldn’t shake off. He released.
Thwack.
Half an inch off the center.
Damn. Close wasn’t good enough. Not here. Not today.
He gritted his teeth and glanced at Sol, waiting for judgement.
The captain didn’t respond. Instead, he retrieved a lumpy sack, thickly bound with a rope knot at the end. A practice dummy—filled with straw. Without a word, Sol began swinging it over his head.
