A couple of days passed after my conversation with Fannar. At least, I thought it had only been a couple of days. Time inside Fighting House had a strange way of slipping past you, like snow drifting quietly across the ground until suddenly the world was buried beneath it.
It was exhausting in a way that sank deep into my bones, a kind of tiredness that no amount of rest could fully erase. So luckily, sleep came easily these days. Not peaceful sleep—never that—but heavy, unavoidable sleep, the kind that dragged me under whether I wanted it or not.
Every muscle in my body constantly ached. Bruises had begun appearing in places I didn’t remember getting hit. My hands were rougher now, small cuts forming along my knuckles from hours of practice, splitting open again each time I struck somet
