Chapter Eleven #2
The kick lands, and while there’s still pain—the pubic bone is sensitive regardless of anatomy—it’s nothing like what he intended. I tighten my thighs, trapping his foot between my legs, and use the leverage to twist my body violently to the side. Only to slip and drop onto my opponent.
Something cracks loudly—the sound of bone giving way under pressure. Brenner’s scream is immediate, a high-pitched wail that doesn’t match his imposing frame. I release him at once and push myself back, watching in horror as he clutches at his leg.
The mask lifts from his face in a frantic swipe, revealing contorted features flushed with pain. His hands scrabble at his pant leg, yanking it up to expose the damage.
I’m not prepared for the visual. His tibia is visibly displaced, pushing against the skin from within. It hasn’t broken through, but the unnatural bulge makes my stomach roll. The skin stretches taut over the deformity, already darkening with bruises as blood pools beneath the surface.
I did that? I didn’t mean to break his leg—just to free myself. The realization of my own strength is…unsettling.
Brenner’s face is a mess of tears and sweat, his tough facade crumbling under the wave of pain. Calder and Finnick approach with caution, looking between Brenner and Arayik as if unsure whether to help.
I should feel bad. This is a career-ending injury for an Enforcer recruit.
He’ll be sent away, his chances of joining the force destroyed.
But all I can summon is divine relief. This man would have killed me given the opportunity, he made that clear last night.
This outcome—him leaving the team with a healing leg rather than me leaving in a body bag—is the better alternative.
The Commander strides over, his movements unhurried. He kneels beside Brenner, examining the injury with clinical detachment. After a moment, he touches something on his wrist and mutters into it—a communication device of some sort.
Within a minute, two Enforcers emerge from the main building, moving with purpose toward our group. I push myself to stand, wincing at the various aches blossoming across my body. The Enforcers reach Brenner and each take one of his arms, preparing to lift him.
“No, wait,” he gasps, his voice frantic and filled with pain. “I’m fine, Commander. I can stay on the team. Just need the medic to—”
“Show me,” Arayik interrupts before crossing his arms. One nod to the Enforcers and they release Brenner’s arms.
The moment they let go, Brenner tries to put weight on his leg and collapses with a shriek, crumpling to the ground. His face contorts, fresh tears streaming along his cheeks.
“Take him to medical,” Arayik orders flatly. “He’s out.”
Just like that, Brenner’s time as a recruit ends.
The Enforcers lift him again, more carefully this time, and carry him toward the training center.
Relief settles through me that Brenner is in too much pain to look back, to threaten me one final time.
His departure solves multiple problems at once—one less threat to navigate.
“Styx, Crowell, ” Arayik commands Calder and Finnick, already moving on. “You’re up.”
The two remaining recruits rush to obey, taking positions on the mat. I step to the side, grateful for the brief reprieve. My body aches everywhere—face throbbing from Brenner’s punch, ribs sore from his weight, muscles coiled with tension, lingering adrenaline the only thing keeping me upright.
Finally, a moment to relax a fraction and watch as the two other recruits circle each other with more caution than Brenner showed.
They’re both wary and professional, testing defenses before committing to attacks.
I should be watching their techniques, learning from their form, but the details blur.
“Ashford.”
The sharp command jerks me back to attention. Arayik stands several yards away, motioning me toward an open patch of grass adjacent to the other recruits. My stomach drops. I thought I’d be allowed to observe the rest of the session and recover from my bout with Brenner.
No such luck.
I walk slowly, each step an effort against protesting muscles. As I approach, his posture shifts the smallest amount—feet planted wider, spine straightening, radiating authority. I stop before him, keeping a cautious distance.
For a long moment, he simply stares at me. “You’re with me.” I nod. “Have you ever had any physical combat training?” he continues, and I’m unsure why he wouldn’t know that. Unless he’s aiming to embarrass me more.
Haven’t had his fill yet today.
I shake my head and answer anyway. “No. If that wasn’t obvious.”
“It was.” The statement hangs between us, impassive and damning. “Your form and reactionary defense are terrible, and you have no offense to speak of.”
Way to make a girl feel good about herself, I think, bitter.
I already know all this. I don’t need him to list my inadequacies again when I’m painfully aware of each one.
I’ve spent my entire life in a house with three other people, never running, never fighting, never building more than a fraction of the strength or endurance these men take for granted.
“That’s precisely why you were put in my afternoon group.” Duh. “You need the most work. But I don’t have time for projects, so you have one week to show improvement, or you’re out.”
One week? Is he fucking serious?
Seven meager days to transform from Cassia the sheltered woman to Lachlan the capable Enforcer. That’s impossible.
I don’t say the thoughts out loud, nodding once, not trusting my voice.
Arayik reaches behind his back and produces two staffs—long, straight poles made of some light but durable material.
They’re hollow in the center, which should make them easier to wield, but I suspect they’ll make a terrible racket when struck together.
My head already aches from Brenner’s punch; I’m not looking forward to the additional assault on my senses.
“We’ll start with these,” he says, holding one out to me. “The staff gives you more surface area for contact, improving your chances of connecting. It also forces proper balance and teaches reactionary defense. Master this, and you’ll have the foundation for any weapon.”
His explanation is actually…helpful; more instructive than I expected from him. Perhaps he’s not completely terrible at teaching, just impatient with those he deems unworthy of his time.
“Ready?” Why would he care?
I’m not, but I confirm anyway, gripping the staff as firmly as I can. It’s almost weightless in my hands, though longer than anticipated. I mimic what I think is a defensive stance, positioning the staff diagonally across my body as I swallow heaps of bile.
The Commander doesn’t give me time to second-guess my form.
He moves with startling speed, his staff whistling through the air as it arcs toward me.
I barely manage to lift mine in time, the impact when they connect sending painful vibrations up my arms. The sound is sharp and loud, making me wince.
His crinkled eyes suggest he wasn’t even using his full strength, I realize with dismay. That was a test swing, a probing attack to assess my reflexes, and I almost missed it.
My feet stumble backward, creating space to think and plan my next move.
But Arayik gives me no opportunity. His attacks come faster now, more deliberate, each one probing a different angle of my defense and hurting worse than the last. He’s methodically exploiting my weaknesses, showing me exactly how exposed I am.
My mind catalogs his pattern—a slight shift in his weight before he strikes, a minute adjustment in his grip—but this knowledge doesn’t translate to effective defense. My responses are too slow, arms not sturdy enough to absorb the impacts as needed.
He spins, quicker than someone his size should be able to move, feinting toward my head. I raise my staff to block, only to realize too late it’s a trap. The other end of his staff sweeps low, catching behind my ankles and yanking my feet from under me.
I crash to the ground, landing hard on my back to only once again struggle for air. My attempt to inhale only triggers a coughing fit, my lungs refusing to cooperate. Panic flares, but gradually my diaphragm remembers its job, and thin sips of air make it to my starving body.
Still wheezing, I push up, only to find Arayik casually leaning on his staff, watching me struggle. I cannot discern his expression, but the relaxed posture radiates smug satisfaction. He’s not exerted himself in the slightest.
The bastard.
Something hot and angry unfurls in my chest. He’s playing with me—not teaching or training, just demonstrating his superiority. I’m a mouse being batted around by a particularly sadistic cat—and that pisses me off.
I am not here to be toyed with. Nor am I here to entertain his ego. I’m here for information and opportunity, to help women like my mother escape those disgusting facilities. His opinion of me means nothing as long as I achieve my goals.
Rising fully to my feet, I reclaim my staff with steadier hands. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me quit.
“Again,” I demand, my voice rougher than I intended.
A slight tilt of his mask is the only indication of surprise before he nods once.
This time, I analyze his stance more carefully. He holds the staff with his left hand forward, right hand back, creating a fulcrum for maximum leverage. His weight rests primarily on his back foot, allowing quick pivots and direction changes.
Then he advances again, but I’m ready now.
When he moves this time, I wait until the last possible moment before reacting. Instead of meeting his strike head on, I angle my staff to deflect rather than block, redirecting the force away from my body. It’s still jarring, but less painful than absorbing the direct impact.
The man presses forward with a series of quick strikes—high, low, high again—testing my adaptability.
I manage to counter or duck from most of them, though each successful block feels more like luck than skill.
I’m just barely keeping up, my brain working faster than my body can execute.
Somewhere in this flurry of movement, I spot an opportunity.
Arayik over-commits to a forward strike, leaving his right side exposed.
It’s probably intentional—a trap for the unwary student—but it’s the only opening I’ve gotten.
I feign a stumble, dropping my guard just enough to make him think I’ve lost my balance. He takes the bait, pressing forward to exploit the weakness. At the last second, I pivot and swing my staff in a controlled path toward his exposed flank.
I don’t expect to actually hit him. I just want to force him to acknowledge that I saw the opening, that I’m capable of strategic thinking even if my execution is amateur.
My staff doesn’t connect—he blocks with annoying ease—but the maneuver forces him a step back to maintain his balance. A minor victory, though it feels monumental.
“Not the worst you’ve exhibited.” His tone is begrudging, but it’s enough that I’ll accept it as a positive compliment.
The momentary pride is short-lived. His next attack comes with renewed intensity, as if he’s decided I no longer need the infant treatment. His staff becomes a blur, striking from angles I can’t anticipate, with a force I can’t match.
One particularly vicious swing knocks my weapon from my hands.
The staff clatters to the ground, rolling away, and before I can consider retrieving it, Arayik has circled behind me, his boot connecting square with my back.
The impact launches me forward, sending me flying several feet through the air before I crash face-first into the dirt.
Soil fills my mouth, gritty and bitter. My back screams with pain, and for a terrifying moment, I wonder if he’s broken something vital.
I roll, my mask shifting upward on my face. I yank it back down, heart racing at the close call. I might have broken bones or crushed organs, and all I can think of is the security of my mask.
What a perfect reflection of my priorities.
“Get up,” Arayik commands with venom. “Enforcers don’t get breaks in the field. If you’re breathing, you’re fighting.”
I struggle to my feet, spitting dirt from my mouth and scraping fingers through the eye slit to clear my vision. I’m so sick of eating mud and dirt.
Finnick and Calder have stopped their own match to watch us. I’m not sure how long Arayik and I have been at this, but the sun has shifted position since Brenner was carried away, creating longer shadows across the yard.
The Commander approaches, both staffs gripped in one hand.
Despite his imposing size and clear physical advantage, I hold my ground.
He stops before me, too close. His presence is overwhelming—a combination of physical size, unyielding authority, and the complete control he holds over my future here.
It would be easy to cower, to submit to his dominance.
I am my mother’s daughter, but submission has never been in my nature.
I hold his gaze, refusing to drop it despite my every instinct begging me to. Let him understand that I might be beaten, but he hasn’t broken me. Not yet, at least. I fear he’ll get there very soon if he keeps this momentum up.
“You’ve got one week to impress me. I do not have time to train anyone who doesn’t want to be here.”
Blood coats my teeth as I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out. Of course I want to be here—though for reasons he’d never understand.
So I simply stay silent and still, accepting his ultimatum without comment.
His eyes study me a moment longer before he straightens and strides away. Even in something as simple as walking, he demonstrates mastery.
My lungs suck in a deep, steadying breath, working to calm my racing heart—the crash after an influx of adrenaline is such an unpleasant experience.
One week. I have one week to transform myself from a woman who’s never fought a day in her life to someone Arayik deems worthy of training.
What a joke.
The odds are impossible. But then, everything about my life and presence here should be impossible.
It seems to be my specialty.