ASTRID

CHAPTER 3

I was fighting again.

The air inside the training room was thick with sweat and tension. My muscles screamed, but I forced my body to move—dodging, blocking, countering.

Four men surrounded me. All armed with training knives—real enough to cut, dull enough not to kill. I wasn’t given anything. No weapon. Just my bare hands and whatever instinct kept me breathing.

One of them lunged first, aiming the blade straight for my ribs. I pivoted sharply, feeling the knife graze past me. His momentum sent him stumbling, and I didn’t waste the opening. A swift kick to the back of his knee dropped him hard to the mat, groaning but still conscious.

The second man was right behind him. He didn’t hesitate. His blade arced toward my shoulder. I ducked, grabbed his wrist, and twisted until I heard a pained grunt. He dropped the knife, but not before his elbow caught the side of my face. Stars exploded in my vision.

I staggered, but clenched my jaw and forced myself to stay upright. No time to be dizzy.

The last two advanced—more cautious now, eyes narrowed. They were faster, better trained. One circled left, the other right, trying to box me in.

My pulse thundered in my ears. I waited, breathing hard, forcing my shaking legs to stay grounded.

Then they struck—both at once.

I dodged right, barely avoiding the blade aimed for my side. My arm shot out, grabbing the attacker’s forearm, and I drove my knee into his gut. He gasped and stumbled back, but the second man was already closing in.

The knife sliced through the air, catching my sleeve and leaving a shallow cut across my arm. I hissed but didn’t falter. Pain would have to wait.

With everything I had left, I lunged forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and used his weight against him. He crashed hard onto the mat, groaning as the air left his lungs.

I stood there, panting—sweat dripping from my chin, blood sliding down my arm.

The four of them lay scattered across the training room floor, groaning, injured but alive. Some held their ribs, others clutched their wrists or rubbed bruised jaws. None of them got back up.

I wiped the sweat from my brow, my chest heaving.

I won.

Barely.

And the worst part? I wasn’t even sure if this was a victory... or...

I forced myself to look toward the left side of the room—where he stood.

My father.

Arms crossed, expression unreadable, eyes cold and sharp as ever. He’d been watching the whole time. Silent. Calculating.

For a second—just a second—I let myself believe he might be proud. That maybe, after all the bruises, the blood, and the pain, I had finally done enough.

But the moment his gaze dropped to the blood streaming down my arm, something in his face shifted. Barely noticeable—but I saw it.

Disappointment.

He shook his head slowly, a quiet, devastating gesture that cut deeper than any knife in that room.

It wasn’t enough.

I wasn’t enough.

Not today. Not ever.

The weight of it settled heavy in my chest, pressing down until it was hard to breathe.

I turned my eyes away, jaw clenched so tight it ached. No matter how many times I fought, no matter how hard I bled—

It was always the same.

Again. And again.

One of the boys I’d taken down groaned, struggling to sit up. He winced, clutching his side but managed to speak—voice strained, breathless.

“Astrid’s... advanced, sir. We couldn’t beat her. She’s too good.”

For a second, I almost felt a flicker of pride. Almost.

My father’s cold gaze didn’t waver. His jaw tightened as he glanced at the blood still dripping from my arm.

“Good?” he scoffed, his voice sharp enough to cut. “A good fighter doesn’t bleed. A good fighter finishes the fight without a scratch.”

The words hit harder than any of their blades. I swallowed hard, throat dry.

How could anyone expect that? How do you face four armed men with nothing but your bare hands and walk away untouched? What does he think I am?

I did my best. I won. Isn’t that enough?

But I knew the answer before the thought finished forming. It never was. Not for him.

I exhaled sharply and rolled my eyes, trying to mask the sinking feeling in my chest.

“Again!” His voice rang out like a gunshot.

My stomach dropped.

He pointed toward the two men who’d been standing silently in the corner—spectators until now. “You two. Join them. All six of you. Take her down.”

What? My eyes snapped up to meet his, wide with disbelief.

Six? I barely survived four.

My pulse roared in my ears as I stared at him—searching for any trace of mercy.

There was none.

He just stared back, cold and unyielding.