He raises his hand and taps a woman on the shoulder.
Cropped hair, piercings through her nose and eyebrow, tawny skin with skin markings that glint under the early light. She’s short—a similar height to Seren—but muscular. Grooves carved into her arms where muscles end and begin.
Seren takes her in. But before she can assess the woman, a large, rough hand wraps around her shoulder.
Her breath stills.
A ripple moves through the circle. Curiosity. Doubt. A few sharp murmurs.
“Enter,” General Ashborne commands.
Seren steps forward without hesitation, but fear spikes all the same.
She rolls her shoulders, sets her jaw, forcing her fear into submission beneath a deeper force; an unflinching need to prove herself.
The woman opposite her does the same.
Seren’s eyes settle on the woman. Assessing her now as an opponent—how she moves, how Seren can use her build against her, how she can exploit her.
The woman’s jaw is set with determination rather than arrogance. Not a bully. Not careless.
Ready to prove herself.
Good.
This will mean something.
They square off in the center of the circle.
The noise fades.
Seren feels every lesson still humming in her body—knees soft, feet wide, breath low, angle shoulders. The ache in her thighs. The rhythm Teddy drilled into her bones.
Across from her, the woman drops into a fighting stance—solid, practiced, like she’s used to physicality. Eyes sharp. Respectful.
“Begin,” General Ashborne says.
The woman lunges first.
Fast. Direct.
For a split moment, panic claws up Seren’s throat—sharp and instinctive, threatening to take control the way it did in the water.
Seren absorbs the strike instead of resisting—knees bending, hips turning just enough to bleed off the force. Her feet slide, but they don’t leave the ground. It isn’t clean. Her footing slips, her balance wavers, but she adjusts instead of freezing.
Thank the fucking gods.
She exhales on contact, just like he told her. Not because she remembers every step, but because her body does.
The woman tries again, harder this time—hands shoving at Seren’s shoulders, trying to drive her backward.
Seren angles away, letting the force skim past her center instead of slamming into it. She stumbles, regains balance, drops lower. For a heartbeat, she feels the edge of losing control, of going down and not getting back up.
The circle reacts—shouts, gasps.
They’re watching now.
Placing wagers.
