I stayed down for another heartbeat—two—palms pressed to the sigiled floor, pretending I was catching my breath and not swallowing my pride. The ring smelled like chalk dust and iron and burned sage—sharp enough to sting, grounding enough to keep me from falling apart. The wards hummed in the stone beneath me, curious and alert. Training grounds were never neutral. They didn’t just contain. They watched.
I forced myself to stand.
Brannick—broad as a fortress wall and twice as unyielding—waited at the edge of the ring, arms folded across his chest. His beard hid most of his expression, but his eyes? Flint. Always flint.
“What did you feel?” he asked. His voice wasn’t unkind, but it left no space to lie. In the ring, you weren’t your name—you were your breath and your shape. Nothing else.
