Chapter 24 Corrina
CORRINA
“Get up.”
A low growl slices through my restless sleep. Ronan, already in training leathers, looms over me, a terrifying silhouette in the pre-dawn gloom, radiating impatient energy.
“It’s still dark,” I mumble, pulling the rough blanket tighter around my shoulders. “Go back to your corner and brood in silence. You’re so good at it.”
“I said, get up.” He yanks the blanket off me without ceremony, exposing me to the biting chill of the stone floor. “Your new life starts now, princess. And it doesn’t wait for the sun.”
Every muscle in my body protests as I force myself to sit up. I’m sore from… everything. The melee, the escape, the nights spent on the floor before Ronan’s strange act of chivalry. “What is the rush? The melee isn’t for weeks.”
“The melee is in nine days,” he corrects, his tone devoid of any sympathy. “And you have a lifetime of softness to unlearn. We don’t have time for beauty sleep.” He tosses a bundle of roughspun cloth at me. “Get dressed. We’re going to run.”
“Run where?” I ask, looking around the ten-by-ten-foot space. “In circles?”
“Until you collapse,” he says, his expression grim. “Then you’ll get up and run some more.”
And so it begins. For what feels like an eternity, I do nothing but run in a tight circle around our cell.
The stone floor is uneven and unforgiving, and the stale air soon burns in my lungs.
Ronan stands in the center like a statue, arms crossed, his steel-blue eyes tracking my every faltering step.
“Faster,” he barks when my pace slows. “You call that running? My grandmother could move faster, and she’s been dead for twenty years.”
“My grandmother,” I gasp, sweat plastering my hair to my forehead, “was a lady. She never ran.”
“And that’s why you’re weak,” he sneers. “Lift your knees. Stop shuffling like you’re walking to your own execution.”
“I feel like I am,” I mutter, but I do as he says, my legs screaming in protest. Every part of me wants to quit, to collapse onto the floor and tell him to go to hell.
But the memory of my own words—Break me, or make me strong—is a relentless whip at my back.
I asked for this. I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me fail on the first day.
“Now, you learn how to take a hit,” Ronan announces after I’ve run until my legs are jelly and my lungs are on fire.
He gestures for me to stand before him. “The arena isn’t a debate society, Corrina.
Words won’t save you when a blade is coming for your throat.
You will get hit. The question is whether you’ll stay down. ”
“I’m not sure I can stand up right now,” I pant, leaning against the wall for support.
“Then this will be a short lesson.” Before I can react, his open palm cracks across my cheek. It’s not a full-force blow, but it’s hard enough to snap my head back and send me stumbling to the stone floor, my ears ringing. The sting is sharp, shocking, and utterly humiliating.
“You bastard!” I scream, scrambling back on my hands and knees.
“Get up,” he says, his voice a flat command.
I glare at him through a curtain of tangled hair, my cheek throbbing. “You hit me.”
“And I’ll do it again. Get. Up.”
Fury, hot and potent, gives me the strength to push to my feet. I lunge at him, my fists flailing wildly. He sidesteps my clumsy attack with insulting ease and shoves me, sending me sprawling back onto the unforgiving stone.
“You fight like a spoiled child having a tantrum,” he says, looming over me. “Where’s your stance? Where’s your guard?”
“Go to hell!” I curse, my voice thick with tears of rage and frustration.
“Hell is coming,” he says grimly. “I’m trying to prepare you for it. Now get up, and this time, try to block.”
This becomes our new reality. He pushes, I fall. He slaps, I curse. My body becomes a canvas of bruises, each one a testament to my own weakness. But with every fall, a hard little knot of defiance grows in my gut. I will not stay down.
“Your fist is wrong,” he growls after I land a particularly pathetic blow against his forearm.
He grabs my hand, his calloused fingers wrapping around mine. His touch is rough, impersonal, yet it sends an unwanted jolt of heat straight through me. He adjusts my fingers, tucking my thumb into the correct position.
“Like this. A straight line from your knuckle to your elbow. You hit with a bent wrist, you’ll break your own hand before you ever hurt your opponent.” His thumb brushes against my palm, and for a heartbeat, the world narrows to that single point of contact.
The days that follow are a blur of relentless, agonizing work. Every morning begins with the same brutal routine, every evening ends with me collapsing onto the cot, every muscle screaming. Ronan is a merciless teacher, his critiques as sharp as any blade.
“Too slow.”
“You’re telegraphing your intentions.”
“A dead woman could block that.”
I loathe him and wish him dead, but I don't give up. Gradually, my movements improve, becoming smoother and more controlled. My body, once soft, begins to harden.
“Again,” he commands one afternoon, circling me in the center of the cell.
“I’m tired,” I snap, sweat dripping into my eyes.
“Death doesn’t care if you’re tired,” he retorts. “He’s coming for you. Left jab.”
I land a practiced punch, which he blocks. My follow-through right cross connects with his shoulder. He grunts, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
“Sloppy,” he says, but with a new note of approval. This backhanded compliment gives me a sense of power and agency.
Our shared glances now hold something hotter than hatred, a dangerous intimacy. He sees me as an apprentice, and I see him as my forge. The anger between us transforms into the friction of sharpening whetstones; every bruise and glance a silent acknowledgment of our violent bond.
Just as confidence flickers, he reminds me of the chasm between us. During sparring, I duck a swing and land a solid hit to his ribs. A triumphant grin spreads across my face.
“Not bad,” he grunts, and I momentarily see pride in his eyes. Then his expression hardens. He moves with impossible speed, grabbing my tunic and slamming me against the stone wall, knocking the wind from me. He holds me, his overwhelming strength absolute.
“Don’t ever get cocky,” he growls. “The moment you think you’re good is the moment you die. That pride on your face? That’s a liability. It makes you predictable.”
“I…” I gasp, struggling for breath.
“You did well,” he says, his voice softening almost imperceptibly. “So I had to remind you that ‘well’ isn’t good enough. In the arena, there is no room for pride. There is only survival.”
He releases me, and I slide to the floor, my body a symphony of aches. The brief moment of triumph is gone, replaced by the familiar sting of humiliation. It’s infuriating, this cycle he puts me through. He builds me up only to tear me down, dangles hope just to snatch it away.
“I hate you,” I whisper, the words a familiar refrain.
“Good,” he says, turning back to his own solitary training. “Hate keeps you sharp. Now get up. We’re not done.”
I push myself to my feet, every muscle protesting. My head throbs, my pride is in tatters, but I will not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break. I will get up, and I will keep fighting. Not just because he commands it, but because for the first time in my life, I am fighting for myself.