Seren feels it in her ribs—the way the title fits him like a scar he’s long since learned to live with.
He studies them as he walks. Not counting numbers. Countingposture. Tension. The ones who lock their knees. The ones already bracing for something that hasn’t happened yet.
“You are not soldiers,” he says.
He stops.
“That is not an insult.”
A few shoulders ease. A few stiffen.
“It’s a fact,” General Ashborne continues. “And facts are where we begin.”
He turns slowly, hands clasped behind his back, broad frame looming over them like a god made flesh.
Gods. He’s arresting in his beauty.
Seren shakes the thought off like a slap.Focus.
“Nymeris has survived because it did not believe itself a threat.”
A pause.
“That belief no longer protects you.”
The words are not loud. They don’t need to be. Because the people shift on their feet as Teddy’s words cut them like a blade of uncomfortable truth.
“I am not here to make you fearless,” he says. “Fear keeps people alive. Keeps your instincts alert.”
Seren thinks of black water closing over her head. Of panic clawing at her lungs. Of how fear came close to getting her killed last time. Not because it existed, but because it almost took control. Seren feels it in her ribs—the truth of it.
“I am here to teach you how to functiondespite it.”
He stops pacing.
“You will start with control.”
He lifts a hand, palm down. Steady. Unmoving.
“Your breath. Your balance. Your ability to stay upright when someone shoves you. Your ability to stand back up when the ground takes you.”
His hand lowers.
“You will not train with weapons today,” he says. “Or tomorrow.”
A ripple of surprise moves through the line. He lets it pass, confident in his command. No. Not just confident.At ease.
“Death is not a result of weapons alone,” he continues. “It is the inevitable end when your body panics before your mind can intervene.”
He gestures to the packed earth beneath their boots.
“When you lose your footing. When your breath goes shallow. When pain makes you stupid.”
A few flinch.
“This training will be uncomfortable,” he says. “If it isn’t, we’re doing it wrong.”
A faint edge enters his voice now. Not anger.Memory.
