Emma's POV
The next day, Ellie accompanied me at the training ground.
The sword feels wrong in my hand. Again.
I swing—and the blade goes wide, sloppy, nowhere near where I aimed.
"Stop." Ellie's voice is patient. Barely. She steps in and repositions my wrist—higher on the grip, knuckles forward. "You're leading with your elbow. The power's supposed to come from here." She taps my shoulder.
I reset. Breathe. Swing.
Still wrong. I feel it the second the blade leaves my body—too loose, too early, the arc dying before it has any real force behind it.
My jaw tightens.
'I can't shift. I can't run. I can't do anything right now except this—and I can't even do this.'
"Again," Ellie says.
I go again. And again. Each repetition is a small, specific humiliation.
I'm setting up for anoth
