“Will you f*****g pick up your sword?”. My father groaned, knocking my sword out of my hand for the third time, injuring me in the process.
I glared at my father, rubbing my sore hand. "Father, Why are you being so hard on me today?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Maybe if you have been training hard instead of following the triplet around like a little slut you are. You won’t call this being hard. And it’s beta to you, I am not your father”. He snapped.
I felt a stinging sensation from his words, like a slap across the face. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I knew my father was trying to provoke me, to get a reaction out of me, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"You're right, Father," I said, my voice cold and detached. "I'm sorry
