ARIANA
The night was quiet, too quiet. I slipped out of my room for a walk—no, for training—because I couldn’t sleep. My arms ached from the day’s practice, but my mind felt restless. I needed to hit the wooden dummies again, to swing my stick until my muscles burned.
I found the little clearing behind the mansion, where the training mats lay. The moon was full and bright, silver light dancing on the grass. I took a deep breath and lifted my stick. The first swing felt heavy, like the wood was made of stone. I grunted and tried again, faster this time, but my foot slipped. I stumbled in the grass and nearly fell face-first. My heart pounded—not from fear, but from shame. I hated feeling so weak.
I heard a twig snap and jumped. My breath caught in my throat. I spun around, stick raised h
