Fight The Teacher
1011 Words
Chapter Two:
Briella’s POV
I barely slept after that dream. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw flashes of silver and Yvonne’s face turning to fear.
By the time the first light crept through the cracks in the shed wall, I’d given up on resting.
The compound was quiet as usual when I stepped outside. Mist hung low over the ground, soft and cold against my skin.
For a moment, it almost felt peaceful… until I remembered where I was.
I could see the main yard from here. Training dummies leaned at odd angles, scarred and half-torn.
Whoever had been here before must’ve trained hard… or fought harder.
I was still staring when a voice came from behind me.
“You plan on standing there all day?”
I spun around. Harold was leaning against the post near the shed, arms crossed.
He wasn’t holding a weapon this time, but he didn’t need to… his presence alone carried enough weight.
“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re up,” he cut in. “Good. That means you can work.”
I nodded, unsure what else to say. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who liked small talk.
“Did you sleep?” he asked after a moment.
I hesitated. “A little.”
His gaze lingered on me for a second longer than I liked, then he nodded toward the yard. “Breakfast is for those who earn it. We’ll start there.”
I almost complained but stopped myself.
“Yes, sir.”
He gave a faint snort. “Don’t ‘sir’ me. I’m not your commander.”
“Then what should I call you?”
“Harold will do,” he said, turning away.
I followed as he walked toward the yard. Even without weapons, he looked dangerous..
The sun was barely up when we reached the center of the yard. The ground was uneven, still damp from the night before.
Harold stopped, looked over his shoulder, and said, “If you want control, you’ll earn it the hard way. No one gets it handed to them.”
“I didn’t expect to,” I said quietly.
“Good,” he replied. “Then let’s see what you’re made of.”
He motioned toward a row of old wooden targets at the far end of the yard. “Pick a weapon.”
I looked over the weapon rack. Most of them were old but well-kept…. daggers, short swords, a few bows.
I reached for the bow.
Harold raised a brow. “You know how to use that?”
“A little,” I said. “My sister taught me.”
My hands felt heavier than they should have as I strung the bow. The string was rough against my fingers. I lined up the shot, exhaled, and released.
The arrow hit but far from center.
Harold didn’t say a word. He just pointed again. “Another.”
I took a second shot. Then a third. Both missed worse than the first. My chest tightened, heat creeping up my neck.
“Again.”
I stood in the middle of the yard, still holding the bow.
Harold watched me for a moment, then shook his head. “Forget the targets.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You want control?” he said, stepping closer. “Then show me how you fight.”
My stomach tightened. “Fight you?”
“You wanted to train. This is training.”
He picked up a wooden staff and tossed another one toward me. I caught it clumsily, the weight was uneven in my hands.
“I’ll use one hand,” he said, gripping his staff loosely in his right. “If you can make me take it seriously, I might believe you’re worth teaching.”
I tightened my grip, trying to remember how Yvonne used to move when she sparred… steady, balanced, focused.
I took a breath, stepped forward, and swung.
Harold blocked it easily. The sound cracked through the yard.
“Again,” he said.
I tried another strike. Then another. Each one met the same result, blocked, deflected, countered without effort.
He wasn’t even looking at me half the time; his eyes wandered over the yard as if I were just background noise.
Heat rose in my chest.
“Is this how you plan to avenge your sister?” he asked suddenly, voice sharp. “By stumbling until someone feels sorry enough to kill you first?”
I froze for half a second, anger cutting through me like a blade.
“Don’t,” I hissed. “Don’t talk about her.”
He didn’t stop. “She’s dead, girl. Maybe you should be grateful. Some people don’t get to have a quick death.”
I swung again, harder this time, aiming for his shoulder. He sidestepped and shoved me back with one hand. The hit knocked the breath out of me.
“Pathetic,” he said. “You’re chasing a ghost with no control, no strength, and no clue what you really are.”
“Shut up!” I shouted, rushing him again.
He blocked my strike and pushed me down easily. My knees hit the dirt while my chest burned from the effort.
He stood over me, looking down at me like I was the biggest disappointment.
“Go home,” he said quietly. “You’re not ready for this life.”
I tried to speak, but the words caught in my throat. The air around me felt heavier. The ground seemed to sink beneath my feet.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
“Get up,” he said.
I tried but my muscles wouldn’t respond. The edges of my vision darkened until all I could see was silver light flickering somewhere inside it.
My hands started to shake and I felt something deep inside me snap loose, flooding every nerve with heat and noise.
I heard Harold say something but the sound was distant, fading fast.
Then everything went black.
- Writer
