“Again,” I say.
Something flickers in Lis’s expression. Approval, perhaps?
She inclines her head. “Better.”
Then she drops me to the ground again.
Fuck. Me.
That becomes my life. Days blur together under a haze of bruises, dirt, and unrelenting critique.
Every morning, Lis drags me to some miserable stretch of Aimaxion for training. Every morning, she dismantles me in a new and inventive way, destroying any confidence or self-esteem I may have had. And Moe is always there to witness my undignified defeats.
Lis makes me spar her until my limbs shake—though she barely exerts any effort. She makes me repeat footwork drills until my legs nearly give out. Then makes me hold shadow constructs until my vision blurs from strain, then berates me when they collapse too early.
She is not only merciless in her attacks, but also in her words.
If my stance is wrong, she knocks me over. If my guard drops, she strikes. If my shadow wavers, she attacks through it.
There is no praise. No softness. No concession to effort.
She only demands results.
And as time passes, I wonder if I have it in me to give it to her—if my luck so far has made me overconfident about my potential.
I may have thought she was strong at first, but after being thrown on my ass one too many times, I’ve realized that’s nowhere near the truth. She is not just strong. She is something I cannot comprehend.
If her behavior toward me can only be called ruthless, how she behaves with Moe is completely different. At first, it makes me mad, some jealousy from before still lingering in the back of my mind.
But I soon start to appreciate the way she always makes sure to include Moe in the training. She might knock me out until I see stars in one second, but she takes a few minutes to explain everything to Moe so she understands what she’s seeing.
Of course, that in turn also helps me understand what I did wrong better—but only after the first taste of defeat goes away.
Moe, the eternal student, scribbles everything in her notebook, nodding along and asking questions.
My ego might be smarting from all the beat-downs, but step by step I start to appreciate Lis and her odd methods.
At first, I cannot touch her. Not even once.
The days pass with me spending more time on the ground than standing and my body becomes a patchwork of bruises and half-healed injuries. Even my improved regeneration struggles to keep pace. Whatever soul energy I may consume during my fights is quickly exhausted during our practices.
Through it all, Moe watches us, laughing every time I fall, teasing me about it every time we go to bed.
No loyalty from that one, even after giving her five or six orgasms daily.
“You are a terrible mate,” I inform her after Lis sweeps my legs for perhaps the fiftieth time.
Moe smiles sweetly from where she sits cross-legged on a fallen stone slab. Her notebook is in one hand and she’s playing with a pencil in the other. “You are very pretty when humbled.”
“I am not being humbled. I am being assaulted,” I cry out.
Lis drives her heel into my ribs.
I wheeze.
“Correct yourself,” she says.
“I hate both of you.”
