CHAPTER 4: A Shadow in the Dark
1264 Words
CHAPTER 4
The cavernous training complex was always a hive of noise and movement, but at three in the morning, it was a tomb. The central gas lamps were dimmed to a mere flicker, casting long, distorted shadows that danced with the occasional draft.
For Lauren, this quiet solitude was a necessity. She couldn’t afford to fail, not after escaping the casino, not after enduring the constant humiliation in the arena just because she was a girl. She couldn’t risk the mockery of Jarek and his lackeys. Her training had to be a secret penance, a battle fought in the deep quiet of the night. Alone, where she can be the only one to see her weakness without being mocked.
She slipped out of the shared barracks, the silence of her movements already a testament to the instincts she’d sharpened in a couple of weeks being here. She made her way to the combat area, stopping before a heavy leather punching bag suspended from the ceiling by thick chains. It was scarred and worn, bearing the silent history of a hundred desperate fights.
Lauren began to punch. She didn’t have Ryle’s brutal strength or the twins’ practiced coordination; she had only a frantic, desperate energy fueled by years of stored-up fear and rage. Thud. Thud. Thud. Her knuckles were wrapped unevenly, still prone to bleeding, but she ignored the pain.
Each strike was a memory: the cold face of the Matron, the greedy eyes of the Albrights, the disgusting Valerius, the maniac man from the casino, the sickening crack of the bottle against the guard’s head.
She wasn’t graceful. Her technique was sloppy, her footwork hesitant, but she was relentless. She kept hitting, focusing on the simple, visceral impact of her fist connecting with the leather. Sweat soon plastered her thin tunic to her back, and her breath came in ragged, painful gasps.
"Sloppy." The sound of his voice, low and devoid of inflection, was like a physical blow.
Lauren froze completely, her heart almost leapt into her throat. She spun around without hesitation, wiping the sweat from her eyes with a forearm. “What…” She stuttered, not knowing what more to say.
What could she possibly say? She knew, deep down, that he hated everyone. He wasn’t the type to talk—he was the complete opposite of Finn.
Ryle stood at the edge of the dim light, leaning against a support column. He was dressed only in dark training trousers, his chest bare, corded with lean muscle. He must have been standing there for a while, a silent shadow observing her failure. His eyes, in the gloom, were impossible to read—they simply held her in a gaze that felt like cold scrutiny.
She cleared her throat, finding the courage to speak, “What are you doing here?” she managed, her voice tight and defensive. She immediately regretted the question. It sounded weak.
He remained perfectly still, leaning against the column. “I could ask you the same thing,” he stated, his light gray eyes locking onto her with an unnerving, emotionless gaze – completely devoid of emotions. “Training is during the day.”
“I…” She stammered, embarrassed by her reasoning, her eyes looked away from his gaze, “I can’t keep up during the day,” she admitted, the humiliation of it stinging her tongue. “I need the extra time.”
A faint, almost imperceptible scoff left his lips. “And what good is this doing?”
The defiance—“No one can bully me and poke fun at me!”—formed perfectly in her mind, yet when she parted her lips, she couldn’t force the words out.
He sighed as he shook her head. “You’re wasting energy.”
“You wouldn’t understand, your pedigree is flawless,” she retorted with a tight, sarcastic smile, echoing the tone of his previous insult.
“Of course it is.” He responded right away with absolute sarcasm.
“Yeah,” She chirped, “It’s the kind of high-level loser stuff only a true disappointment could master.” Her response was laced with bitter irony, recalling the ‘loser’ label he’d thrown at her previously.
He stared at her, still emotionless, but to her, he looked at her as if he was disgusted with her presence in this training ground, “Well, loser,” He called her out openly, “Your stance is open.”
Lauren’s gaze dropped instantly to her feet, making her instantly self-conscious of her form after his remark. Ryle continued his critique: “You’re swinging from the elbow, not the core.”
“I’m trying,” she muttered under her breath.
He mocked her relentlessly. “What? I can’t hear you.”
Gritting her teeth, Lauren repeated the phrase, slightly louder. “I said I’m trying!”
Ryle simply feigned deafness again with a taunting, elevated tone. “Huh?”
Finally erupting, Lauren glared at him. “I’m trying!” she flared, her desperate effort instantly morphing into blazing anger.
She hated that he had caught her like this, exposed and vulnerable. “It’s more than I was doing before. At least I’m not—” she cut herself off, but the unspoken words hung heavy between them: —at least I’m not mocking others.
Ryle seemed unimpressed by her temper. He pushed off the column and walked toward her, causing her to stiffen due to his presence and his towering height. His movements were fluid, silent, predatory. He stopped directly in front of the heavy bag, ignoring her entirely.
“If you’re going to hit something, hit it right,” he commanded.
He didn't look at her; he looked at the bag. Then, with a sudden, explosive burst of controlled power, he struck. The impact was deafening—a deep, resounding WHUMM that vibrated the very chains holding the bag. The bag didn’t just swing; it flew outward in a wide arc, the leather taut and screaming, before snapping back.
Lauren stared, momentarily stunned. The difference between her frantic thuds and his singular, earth-shaking blow was vast and absolute.
“That’s power,” Ryle stated, turning his head just enough for his gaze to flick to her. “You have the will to hit. You don’t have the technique. All that effort, and you’ll just break your hand.”
He finally stepped away from the bag, giving her a small, contained piece of the arena. He didn’t offer encouragement, didn't offer a gentle hand like Finn. He offered a challenge, cold and unwavering.
“Again,” he ordered, the single word cutting through the quiet. “Show me that infamous fire you had, Kaelan was so proud about when you ran, loser.”
The insult snapped Lauren’s head up; her light blue eyes blazed with anger, her eyebrows knitted tightly together. His disdain hurt, but it also served its purpose.
“Are you deaf?” he asked coldly. “I said, again. Stop being this whimpering garbage.”
Lauren’s pride was a fragile thing, but his disdainful words ignited the familiar, fierce determination she’d relied on to survive. She took a deep breath, shifted her weight, and tried to mimic his stance. She didn’t manage a WHUMM, but her next strike was cleaner, the thud slightly deeper.
“Again.” He ordered in a colder voice.
Ryle watched her, his expression a solid sheet of ice. He was her audience, her harshest critic, and, impossibly, her silent teacher in the darkest hours of the night.
- Writer
