The first swing knocked her off her feet.
Selene hit the frozen ground of the clearing outside the cave with a dull thud, breath flying from her lungs like smoke in the morning air. Her sword skidded across the mossy earth. Pain bloomed across her ribs, sharp and immediate.
“Again,” Ronan barked, unmoved.
She pushed herself up, palms stinging, snow dusting her tangled hair. Her muscles screamed in protest. It was barely sunrise, and she’d already lost count of how many times she’d been knocked down.
The forest around them was silent but watchful. The pines stood tall like sentinels, branches coated in frost, and far above, ravens circled—perhaps drawn by the scent of sweat and spilled blood.
Selene’s blood.
Ronan tossed her the wooden sword she’d dropped. “You hesitate when you swing
