Chapter 10 She’s Still Probably Going to Die
She’s Still Probably Going to Die
By the time night had fallen, I had bruises in places I didn’t know I could bruise. My arms trembled with every movement. My legs were overcooked, limp noodles, and my only consolation was that I hadn’t hit myself again. Much.
“You’re very stiff,” Rena commented, circling me like a hawk about to strike. “Stop thinking so much. Feel the momentum, use your instincts.”
“I’m feeling a lot of things,” I panted. “None of which is momentum.”
“Then do it again.”
Bitch.
I swung.
She blocked me easily, and with one well-placed twist, she had me back on the ground.
“That was better,” she said, offering again.
I took it, glaring at my trainer. “Your version of better is abusive.”
A shrug was all I got in response.
At dinner, I collapsed at the table in our shared quarters, face-first into a plate of something roasted and smelling weirdly like stinky feet. I didn’t care. I was too tired to be picky.
Carl-Two patted my back gently, sitting next to me on the seated bench we shared. “You’ll feel better tomorrow, I bet.”
“Tomorrow, I will be dead,” I said into the plate glumly.
Day two started with a groan and a desperate, maybe misguided belief that Carl had been right, and I wouldn’t be sore when I woke up.
Spoiler: I was. Every muscle ached, like I’d spent the night wrestling with a bear in my sleep. Even my fingers hurt. Who knew fingers could even be sore?
I sat up in my cot and immediately regretted it. Carl-Two handed me a cup of something hot, questionably green, and steaming.
“What’s this?”
“Herbal tonic,” he said cheerfully. “It should help you with the pain. Tarran made it.”
“It smells like old socks.”
He beamed. “That means it’ll work!”
Tarran stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable but her arms full with a water canteen, cloth bandages, and what looked suspiciously like a muffin.
“You’ll need your strength,” she said, holding it out to me.
“Can’t I just take the rest of the days off and hope for the best at the trial?” It was worth a try.
“No.”
Fair enough.
By the time we had meandered to the training yard, Rena was already there.
She was dressed in the same crimson armor, her hair tucked neatly in a braid down her back, already running drills by herself with a short spear.
The way she moved—fluid, efficient, controlled—made my staff work look like a toddler learning to walk.
She didn’t greet me with any kind words—she only nodded and tossed me a sparring pad. “Put it on. We’re sparring today.”
“Oh joy,” I said. “Because what my bruises really need are more bruises.”
“Complaining is really going to help you pass,” she said, already circling me like a lion stalking its prey.
I got into one of the defensive positions she taught me yesterday, my stance a little more sure today. Still not good, but better. Rena didn’t wait for me to feel ready. She struck fast, sharp, testing me.
I blocked.
Badly.
But I didn’t fall.
“Better!” she exclaimed, circling again. “Keep your weight on your back leg. You lean too far forward when you panic.”
“Who said I was panicking?”
“You breathe like a cornered animal when I get close.”
She kept at it, strike, block, retreat, repeat, until I was dripping with sweat and my arms felt like soggy breadsticks.
But even through the exhaustion, I felt something shifting.
I wasn’t thinking so much about where to place my feet.
I wasn’t gripping the staff like it was a bomb that might explode.
Around midday, we paused. I collapsed in the shade with a wheezing breath, unable to stop the moan of pain as I lowered myself down. Carl-One handed me a napkin and a chunk of cheese that looked like it may have been older than me. I chewed on it gratefully, barely having the energy to thank him.
Rena leaned on her spear, watching me.
“You learn fast,” she said.
“I’m just as shocked by that as you are.”
She cracked a smile. “Sharper. Less flailing. Still bad though.” She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing at me in a way I didn’t like.
“You ever think about what happens if you actually win?” she asked quietly.
Her eyes flicked to Tarran, who was entertaining Carl-Two, the two of them drawing pictures in the sand.
I blinked. “I get a key. One step closer to going home and getting out of this godforsaken nightmare of a book.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then I get a one-way ticket to dead.”
She didn’t flinch. “Do you want to go home?”
“Yes,” I said immediately. “I’ve got a life out there. A best friend who’s probably calling every police station in town to send out a search party. Family that’ll think I’ve vanished off the face of the Earth.”
Rena studied me. “Good. Hold on to that. It’s easier to fight when you’ve got something worth going back to.” A part of my chest warmed until she said, “And the way you fight, you’re probably going to die so don’t give up.”
“You were doing so well until that last part. Motivational speeches are not your gift.”
“I stab things. That’s my gift.”
We returned to training, and the rest of the day passed in a blur of motion and correction. By sunset, I was blocking more often than I missed. My stance no longer screamed ‘easy target’.
Tarran watched every moment, offering water and the occasional quiet tip, never once interfering. She and the Carls seemed to have procured a steady supply of various muffins, keeping me fed throughout the day. But every time I looked at her, I could see something dark lurking in her expression.
When the sun finally dipped behind the towers of the kingdom of Valor, Rena called it.
“Go eat. Sleep. Tomorrow’s the last prep day. After that…you’re on your own.”
I could barely move, but some stubborn part of me stood as tall as I could and walked without limping. At least until I was out of view.
Back in the room, I dropped onto my cot like a sack of potatoes. I only stirred when Tarran gently tucked the blanket over me, her soft hand brushing the stray hairs out of my face.
“I think I might actually survive this,” I mumbled, and a small smile played over her lips.
Carl-One swam into view, scribbling something in his notes. “Day Two: Warrior spirit is emerging. Staffwork is not great, but she may not die. Mood: cautiously optimistic, but still preparing for the worst.”
“Add something about the muffins in there,” I muttered before I slept. Hard. Dreamless.
Day three was coming, and I had to be ready.