Chapter Eighteen
The sea can teach, the blade can train
Neither can bargain fate’s domain
The clearing is wide and bare, the grass worn thin from use and neglect alike. Far enough from Elarion Castle that the city cannot pretend this is formal.
Seren stands just off to the side, hands clasped behind her back, hair pulled back in the style of a warrior, watching as the soft light of dawn rises over the clearing.
They’ve gathered in uneven rows—farmers, archivists, dockhands, peacekeepers. A poor excuse for an army. Bodies unused to being arranged this way. A nation that has always believed distance and diplomacy would be enough.
And Teddy.
He doesn’t rush to the center. He lets the quiet settle first. Lets the wind off the sea comb through the clearing. Lets the people grow uncomfortable with their own noise. Then he steps forward.
He does not hurry. Does not intentionally intimidate. He simply steps forward, and his presence dominates the space.
A force.
“From this moment on,” he says, voice low, steady, carrying without effort, “you will address me as General Ashborne. Or General.”
That’s all.
No explanation. No softness.
“Is that clear?” he demands, his voice unyielding.
“Yes, General!” the army bellows in poorly timed and disorganized responses. But more than that, their voices shake.
Seren feels it in her ribs—the way the title fits him like a scar he’s long since learned to live with.
He studies them as he walks. Not counting numbers. Counting posture. Tension. The ones who lock their knees. The ones already bracing for something that hasn’t happened yet.
“You are not soldiers,” he says.
He stops.
“That is not an insult.”
A few shoulders ease. A few stiffen.
“It’s a fact,” General Ashborne continues. “And facts are where we begin.”
He turns slowly, hands clasped behind his back, broad frame looming over them like a god made flesh.
Gods. He’s arresting in his beauty.
Seren shakes the thought off like a slap. Focus.
“Nymeris has survived because it did not believe itself a threat.”
A pause.
“That belief no longer protects you.”
The words are not loud. They don’t need to be. Because the people shift on their feet as Teddy’s words cut them like a blade of uncomfortable truth.
“I am not here to make you fearless,” he says. “Fear keeps people alive. Keeps your instincts alert.”
Seren thinks of black water closing over her head. Of panic clawing at her lungs. Of how fear came close to getting her killed last time. Not because it existed, but because it almost took control. Seren feels it in her ribs—the truth of it.
“I am here to teach you how to function despite it.”
He stops pacing.
“You will start with control.”
He lifts a hand, palm down. Steady. Unmoving.
“Your breath. Your balance. Your ability to stay upright when someone shoves you. Your ability to stand back up when the ground takes you.”
His hand lowers.
“You will not train with weapons today,” he says. “Or tomorrow.”
A ripple of surprise moves through the line. He lets it pass, confident in his command. No. Not just confident. At ease.
“Death is not a result of weapons alone,” he continues. “It is the inevitable end when your body panics before your mind can intervene.”
He gestures to the packed earth beneath their boots.
“When you lose your footing. When your breath goes shallow. When pain makes you stupid.”
A few flinch.
“This training will be uncomfortable,” he says. “If it isn’t, we’re doing it wrong.”
A faint edge enters his voice now. Not anger. Memory.
“You will be tired. You will be sore. You will be embarrassed.”
He meets their eyes one by one.
“That embarrassment is a cost you have to pay to learn the skills that will save your life. Save your families. Save your kingdom.”
Silence stretches. Holds.
“I won’t promise you victory,” General Ashborne says quietly. “I will promise you competency.”
Another pause.
“Anyone unwilling to train their body to withstand chaos should leave now. If you would rather flee with your families, do not stay to fight now.”
No threat. No judgment. Just truth.
No one moves.
“Good,” he says. “Now, find a partner.”
Seren drags her eyes across the group, already forming pairs, and eyeing her warily.
Teddy doesn’t falter, just walks toward her, sweat already slicking his brow and creating a sheen over the corded muscles of his forearms.
Seren’s mouth goes dry.
Holy fucking Stars—concentrate.
She admonishes herself, but she’s not in control. Her stomach coils tight at the sight of him like this.
“You’ll be mine for today,” he says, no room for discussion.
Seren knows he means for training, but her mind drifts to other places.
“Rule number one,” General Ashborne casts across the clearing. “If you can’t keep your feet, you won’t keep your life.”
Seren gives a tight nod, and the soldiers shout in a poor attempt at unison, “Yes, General!”
“One person will crouch into a fighting stance. The objective of your partner is to knock you off your feet. And you? You will not let them. Understand?” His voice booms across the clearing.
“Yes, General!”
The army splits off into pairs, and in a heartbeat, feeble men and women crumple to the ground like babies learning to walk.
But Teddy’s eyes aren’t on anyone else. They’re on her—heavy, fixed, and unflinching.
Seren swallows thickly.
“Fighting stance, Calvatere,” he commands, no softness in his tone.
And despite herself, Seren sucks her bottom lip.
Ugh. Not the time—get a fucking grip!
She places her feet shoulder-width apart and lifts her fists in an embarrassing attempt at combat. General Ashborne swats at them like her fists are nought but a bothersome fly. Then he closes the distance between them, looking down at her with a dominance that almost buckles her knees.
“Wider,” Teddy says, nudging his feet between her legs and pushing her heel outward with the toe of his boot.
“Okay,” Seren murmurs, dragging her feet wider.
She adjusts, instinctively straightening her legs.
He shoves her.
She stumbles—hard—catching herself just before the dirt.
“Locked knees,” he says flatly. “You may as well give up now.”
He’s baiting her.
He crouches, eye level now, so close she can smell the war and earth on him—iron, salt, and sun-warmed skin. He reaches down, tapping the backs of her knees. “Soft. Always soft. You don’t fight force by resisting it—you absorb it.”
“Okay, goo—”
But Teddy doesn’t let her finish. He kicks her left foot out from under her with a swift strike. Seren sprawls backward, palms catching her before her head can slam into the packed earth. The bandages on her palm roll up, letting the dirt and dust crawl into her fresh wounds from The Perils.
Her fierce gaze snaps to the General.
“Fuck!” she screams. “I wasn’t ready!”
But as the words slip from her mouth, she realizes a deeper truth: the ocean had not waited for her to be ready either. And she already knows she’s said the wrong thing.
General Ashborne huffs a laugh. “War won’t wait for you, Calvatere. Neither will The Perils.”
The use of her last name grinds her patience.
“Don’t call me that,” she snaps through gritted teeth, dragging herself to stand, and dusting off her leathers with excessive force.
But Teddy’s eyes glint like he’s won.
“Then hold your ground.”
He pushes again—harder this time.
Seren absorbs the force through bent knees, but still stumbles, dropping to one knee without thinking, palm slapping into the dirt.
Teddy stops instantly.
“Good,” he says.
She blinks up at him.
“The more contact points you hold, the harder you are to uproot,” he explains. “Get up,” he commands.
And somehow, she likes it. She likes the way he doesn’t treat her like she’s breakable. Doesn’t coddle her in softness. Doesn’t treat her like she’s different from the rest of the people here.
So she climbs to her feet, a fire in her belly that wasn’t there before.
She drops into a low crouch, feet spread, knees soft, weight balanced.
“Never meet force head-on. Play the angles. Manipulate force to your gain,” he instructs, voice low and commanding.
She gives a tight nod, but doesn’t move.
He hits her shoulder—not cruel, not gentle—and she goes down in a tangle of limbs.
He offers no apology.
Her brows furrow, teeth snarling in frustration. But resolve takes root. She springs to her feet, but this time, she doesn’t face him head-on. She positions herself again, angling her stance just slightly.
Teddy grabs her shoulders. “You angle into force with your shoulder to throw it off-center. Or you angle away from it to let it slip past.” He contorts her shoulders, showing her the power of her own body.
Teddy shoves into her side, but she leans in with her shoulder, knees soft, and absorbing the force. She stumbles. But this time, she stays on her feet. The ground shifts beneath her, but she shifts with it.
“Good,” he encourages, and something stirs in her belly at the praise.
If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He just stalks around her like he’s hunting prey.
Seren turns with him, angling her body, widening her stance, crouching low.
“This time, exhale on contact. I want you to brace yourself,” he says, leaning in until the scent of him wraps around her like fog on a cold morning. “Here,” he brackets her hips with his calloused hands. “And here,” he breathes, pressing her stomach and lower back between his palms.
Seren nods, swallowing down thoughts that aren’t welcome on the training ground.
“Breath is timing,” he says quietly. “In water. In crowds. In battle. Miss the rhythm, and it will take you under. Get it right, and your muscles will withstand the force.”
And Teddy shoves her shoulder. Hard.
She angles away just enough to soften the force.
And her feet stay planted in the dirt.
“Very good,” he praises.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t soften. Praise, from him, is currency. Teddy does not give what he cannot afford to mean. He drops down low, using the full force of his shoulder to thrust himself into her side. But she leans in, twisting her body to the side, and exhaling sharply on contact.
“Yes,” Teddy encourages again.