Chapter Eighteen #2
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-called army moves 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 the other 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.
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.
Shouting.
But Seren blocks it out, homing in on her opponent.
The woman grits her teeth and changes tactics, hooking a leg behind Seren’s calf, trying to sweep her.
Seren feels it coming.
Instead of stiffening, she drops.
One knee hits the ground. One shredded palm slaps the dirt.
Three points of contact.
Stable.
The woman over-commits.
And that’s when Seren moves.
She twists at the waist, shoulder driving in—not to strike, but to unbalance. She uses the woman’s momentum instead of fighting it, shoving at the hip while pulling at the shoulder.
The woman’s footing falters.
Just for a heartbeat.
Seren doesn’t take the opening cleanly. She takes it however she can—twisting, shoving, forcing the moment before it slips away. Seren lunges for the woman, sloppy, scrappy, uncontrolled. She shoves, catching the woman in the shoulder.
But it’s enough.
The woman goes down hard, back hitting the earth with a grunt of surprise.
The circle erupts.
Seren steps back instantly, hands open, breath steady. Heart hammering—but controlled.
She’s still standing. But barely. Her breath stutters, her legs tremble, like the ground could take her at any second if she lets it.
Silence crashes down.
General Ashborne’s gaze locks onto her.
Long. Assessing.
Then…
A single nod.
Approval.
Not because it was flawless, but because she didn’t collapse when it mattered. When she wanted to.
Seren’s chest tightens—not with pride, but with something steadier. Heavier. Real. Like validation. Like proof she’s never met her potential.
The woman on the ground lets out a breathless laugh and takes Seren’s offered hand, allowing herself to be hauled upright.
“Good fight,” she says, genuine.
Seren nods back. “You too.”
“Samira,” the woman says, offering her name and a kind smile.
“Seren.”
Samira’s mouth quirks. “I know.”
“Right,” Seren mutters. “Hard to stay anonymous when you’re the one they whisper about.” Seren huffs a laugh.
“Everyone heard,” Samira says, quieter now, “about what you did to that traitor.”
Seren’s mouth tightens.
“If they knew what he’d done,” Seren says, “they’d be grateful.”
It was the first time she’d thought about it since the Battle of Kryntar.
Because truthfully, Seren felt no remorse for the broken neck she’d dealt the man who betrayed her friends.
Some men earn their endings.
“Quite a way to go out,” Samira shrugs.
“Yeah, well, if you knew him, you wouldn’t be scared, you’d be celebrating,” Seren quips, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.
Samira laughs, a light, easy sound.
But General Ashborne’s voice cuts through the aftermath.
“That,” he says, gesturing to Seren, “is how you apply new skills. You must apply them in real, unpredictable circumstances or they are nought but performances.”
Eyes turn to her again.
Seren feels it then—the shift.
No longer fear. Now, it feels more like recognition.
She steps back into the ring’s edge, lungs burning, sweat slicking her spine, and the truth settles in her bones. She can do this. Not perfectly. Not effortlessly. Not cleanly. But consciously.
She didn’t fight the ocean, she merely survived it.
She didn’t assess it, didn’t profile it like an opponent she had to outmaneuver.
She simply outlasted it.
Her palms sting where the dirt has worked into the bandages. The reminder is sharp as a knife: pain is coming either way. She’d rather choose it.
Seren feels the resolve settle into her bones like a homing beacon. She knows what she has to do. Before doubt can creep back in. Before her courage cools.
She didn’t win because she was better. She won because she stayed long enough. So she steps away from the circle. Away from the army.
Teddy notices her movement, but doesn’t react. At least, not to the army.
He grips his amulet, eyes fixed on the circle, and his gravelly voice drifts through her mind like a balm.
You were fucking extraordinary.
At the edge of the clearing, Seren plants her feet.
Wider.
Knees soft.
Breath low.
She lifts her hands.
And rips open a Gateway to the roaring, endless dark of The Perils.