Teddy grabs her shoulders. “You angle into force with your shoulder to throw it off-center. Or you angle away from it to let it slip past.” He contorts her shoulders, showing her the power of her own body.
Teddy shoves into her side, but she leans in with her shoulder, knees soft, and absorbing the force. She stumbles. But this time, she stays on her feet. The ground shifts beneath her, but she shifts with it.
“Good,” he encourages, and something stirs in her belly at the praise.
If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He just stalks around her like he’s hunting prey.
Seren turns with him, angling her body, widening her stance, crouching low.
“This time, exhale on contact. I want you to brace yourself,” he says, leaning in until the scent of him wraps around her like fog on a cold morning. “Here,” he brackets her hips with his calloused hands. “And here,” he breathes, pressing her stomach and lower back between his palms.
Seren nods, swallowing down thoughts that aren’t welcome on the training ground.
“Breath is timing,” he says quietly. “In water. In crowds. In battle. Miss the rhythm, and it will take you under. Get it right, and your muscles will withstand the force.”
And Teddy shoves her shoulder.Hard.
She angles away just enough to soften the force.
And her feet stay planted in the dirt.
“Very good,” he praises.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t soften. Praise, from him, is currency. Teddy does not give what he cannot afford to mean. He drops down low, using the full force of his shoulder to thrust himself into her side. But she leans in, twisting her body to the side, and exhaling sharply on contact.
“Yes,” Teddy encourages again.
Seren lets a smile break free on her face. And they settle into a rhythm of pushing, falling, instructing, and correction.
After at least a dozen rounds of what Teddy called ‘pressure drills’, Seren can see—feel—herself improving.
“I’m getting better, Teddy,” she grins.
But the General does not respond. He simply spins on his heel, striding through the pairs like a master critiquing his students.
“I want you here every morning before first light,” General Ashborne commands, projecting his voice through the clearing. “You start with this, and you stay with this, until every one of you holds their feet when I test you.”
The group moves to break away.
But the General won’t have that. “I did not dismiss you,” he corrects, his voice a menacing challenge.
No one moves—too scared to trigger his wrath. Because Teddy is restrained, but Seren has seen him tear limb from limb, cleave men in half, break bones with his bare hands.
No one is willing to test whether his restraint is a choice.
“Circle up!” he demands, and the so-calledarmymoves like their lives depend on it.
The General stalks the perimeter like a wolf circling prey.
“If I tap your shoulder, you are to enter the circle.” His voice is clear and cutting. “You have one objective: get theother person off their feet. Losers stay for an additional hour of training.”
Groans ripple through the circle. Fear sharpens. Pride stiffens spines.
This is no longer practice.
This is exposure.
The General moves with intentional menace—slow, intimidating.
