CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Official Vanguard training made Ironhaven look like a playground.
"First rule of Vanguard training," he said. "We don't train to look good. We train to kill things that shouldn't exist and survive things that should kill us."
"Romantic."
"Practical. You'll learn the difference."
The first week was conditioning from hell. Weighted runs around the compound. Obstacle courses designed for awakened physiques—walls too high, gaps too wide, cargo nets that swayed in ways that defied physics. Olivia failed constantly. She fell off walls, slipped on ropes, collapsed during sprints.
But she got up. Every time, she got up.
"Your endurance is improving," Lucas noted on day five, as she finished a three-mile run with the weighted vest. She'd been last, as always, but she'd finished.
"I'm too stubborn to quit."
"That stubbornness is your greatest weapon." He tossed her a water bottle. "Now. Weapons assessment."
They moved to the armoury's blade section. Lucas had selected a new weapon for her—a short spear, roughly five feet, with a leaf-shaped blade and a weighted butt cap. It was similar to Valeria Vance's chronos-glaive, but more practical for close quarters.
"The gladius was emergency equipment. This is your actual weapon. Learn it."
Olivia took the spear. The weight felt right—heavy enough to generate power, light enough to maneuverer. She tested a few thrusts, feeling the balance.
"Good grip," Lucas said. "Now, forms."
He taught her Vanguard spear forms—aggressive, linear, designed to pierce armoured creatures.
But Olivia found herself adapting them, adding the angles and flexibility she'd developed at Ironhaven.
She ducked lower than the forms suggested, struck from positions that shouldn't have worked, used her spear like a staff when enemies closed distance.
"You're not following the forms," Lucas observed.
"The forms were designed for someone six feet tall with a standard reach. I'm not standard."
"Then design your own forms."
She did. Over the next two weeks, something unique emerged—a fighting style that combined spear work with judo throws, capoeira kicks, gymnastic evasion, and brutal close-quarters striking.
She used her flexibility to attack from impossible angles.
She used her low centre of gravity to unbalance larger opponents.
She used her core strength to generate power from positions that looked defensive until they weren't.
Lucas sparred with her daily, and she scored touches more and more frequently. Other trainers stopped to watch. Word spread through the compound: the laundry girl was dangerous.
By week four, Olivia had a nickname. The soldiers called her "The Weasel"—not because she was sneaky, but because she could slip through gaps in defence that shouldn't have existed. She weaved under strikes, around guards, through openings that vanished as quickly as they appeared.
"I hate that nickname," she told Lucas.
"Nicknames are earned. Be grateful it's not worse."
"What's worse than Weasel?"
"Cass got 'Princess' for six months because she threw a tantrum during a sparring match." He paused. "Wait. Cass is here."
Olivia's blood chilled. "What?"
"She arrived last week. Elite striker, seconded from Ironhaven's surviving personnel. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to distract you."
"Cass is here. In this compound. Right now."
"Unfortunately."
They found her the next morning, training with the advanced group. She looked the same—lean, sharp, perpetually angry. When she saw Olivia in Vanguard black, her expression curdled.
"Well. The pet project got a promotion. Did you sleep with the right people, or just break into the right buildings?"
"Both, actually," Olivia said sweetly. "Turns out competence and initiative are valued here. You should try them sometime."
Cass's hand twitched toward her weapon—a longsword, regulation issue. "You want to go again? Right now?"
"Ladies." Commander Sable appeared from nowhere, her silver hair gleaming. "The wasteland provides enough enemies. We don't need internal ones. Cass, report to the briefing room. Olivia, continue your training."
Cass stalked off. Sable watched her go with narrowed eyes.
"She's dangerous," Sable said quietly.
"I know. I've fought her."
"Not physically. Politically. She has allies in the Vanguard hierarchy. People who believe only the strong deserve to survive." Sable turned to Olivia. "Be careful, laundry girl. Your talent makes you visible. And visibility is dangerous when you have enemies."
"I'll keep my head down."
"No you won't. That's not who you are." Sable's blue eyes glinted. "Just make sure you're ready for what comes next. Because it's coming faster than you think."