Teddy moves through it like a storm given human shape.
He adjusts a soldier’s stance with a tap of his boot. Rotates another’s shoulders to redirect force. Demonstrates leverage instead of resistance. Shows them how to absorb, redirect, advance.
Every correction precise.
Every movement purposeful.
Every lesson carved into flesh through repetition.
Seren watches him for a moment too long.
The absolute command of him.
The clarity.
The way bodies reorganize around his presence without conscious thought.
He does not hesitate here.
He does not doubt.
He does not linger at thresholds wondering what might happen if he commits.
He simply moves.
And she loves it. She hates that she loves it—the clear, calculated precision of him.
Her chest aches with grief.
“Enough,” he booms through the ranks.
He gestures toward the perimeter of the clearing.
“Motion without endurance is a temporary advantage,” he says. “Run.”
No further instruction.
Just expectation.
No grumbles this time. No resistance. Not obedience, either.Respect.
So they run.
The entire army surges forward—uneven at first, then slowly synchronizing into rhythm. Boots pounding dirt. Breath tearing through lungs unused to sustained exertion.
Seren runs with them.
Her legs scream from repeated impacts. Her ribs ache with the fractures and where Teddy’s shoulder met her again and again. Sweat slides down her spine, soaking fabric, blurring sensation.
But inside, she feels… clearer.
The moment she commits to motion, doubt thins.
When she drives forward, hesitation loses its grip.
When she runs, she does not think about him holding back. About nights spent inches apart yet impossibly distant. About the way he touches her like she might break and then withdraws likehemight.
Step after step.
