Page 60 of Embers of Ruin

I blink. “So...you're training me.”

She sighs, sounding thoroughly exhausted by my inability to keep up. “Yes.”

“With what weapon?”

“None. You will become the weapon.”

I stare at her. She rolls her shoulders once, loosening them with effortless grace. “If someone gets close enough to disarm you, your blade alone might not be enough to save you. Your magic may not be, either—especially if you panic. You need to learn how to stay on your feet.”

I frown. “I’m excellent at standing.”

“You nearly collapsed onto the rug your first day here.”

I scoff, deeply offended. “I was emotionally overwhelmed by the architecture.”

Mazelle’s mouth twitches, then she moves. She’s fast. Too fast. One moment she’s several feet away, the next her hand catches my wrist and twists. Pain flashes up my arm, sharp enough to steal a gasp from my throat. I react on instinct, stepping with the pressure instead of against it and trying to hook my foot behind her ankle. It almost works. Almost.

Mazelle pivots, and the world tilts. I hit the sand hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. For several profoundly humiliating seconds, I lie there staring up at the gray sky. The sky, much like the ceiling yesterday, is deeply unsympathetic.

A few soldiers make the mistake of chuckling and Mazelle's head turns just enough for them to catch the warning in her eyes. The laughter dies instantly.

She looks down at me. “Stand.”

I drag air into my lungs. “Lovely first lesson.”

“Did you not hear me⁠—”

I cut her off before she can finish that sentence. “I heard you the first time.” I remain flat on my back. “I was giving the ground a moment to appreciate my presence. It seems we're going to become well acquainted.”

“Lady Tarethyn, now.” Her voice leaves no room for argument.

I push myself upright, pride stinging more than my back, though my back has a strong opinion as well. Sand clings to my tunic and hair. Great. I’ve been in the training yard for less than five minutes and already resemble something dragged from a ditch.

Mazelle waits until I am on my feet before circling me slowly. “You have good instincts,” she says.

I gasp dramatically. “Was that a compliment?”

“No.”

“Tragic.” I spit onto the sand, wiping the sweat from my brow.

“You move like someone who has fought to escape, not someone trained to win.”

I force a smile, gritting my teeth so hard they might crack. “Escaping has kept me alive so far.”

“Barely. It will not keep you alive forever.”

I want to snap back. I want to tell her that barely alive is STILL alive. That not all of us grew up with palace courtyards, guards, and instructors waiting to teach us how to fight. I want to scream that some of us learned survival in alleys, forests, and forgotten villages, where every sideways glance felt like the beginning of a noose tightening around our necks.

I want to tell her that surviving as the only girl with bronze skin and silver hair in a village that feared anything different meant learning to stay quiet, keep my head down, and never draw attention to myself. That was survival. The words rise to my tongue…and die there. Because something in her expression tells me she already knows. Or worse—understands.

“Again,” she says, but this time the words are a little less sharp.

Of course. Let’s fucking go.

The next hour becomes a blur of sand, bruises, and Mazelle’s infuriatingly calm voice. She teaches me to shift my weight, keep my knees loose, and turn a grabbed wrist into motion before an opponent can react. She uses my smaller frame against larger opponents, making me repeat the same movements until my arms tremble and my lungs burn. Every time I think I've finally figured it out, she changes the angle and sends me sprawling into the sand again.

I hit the ground seven times. Not that I’m counting.