So I go to the only place that makes sense.
The training yard.
Lira is already there.
She is running suicide sprints across the field, back and forth, her pace sharp and punishing. Sweat drips down her temples. Her jaw is locked tight. She looks like she is trying to outrun her own memories.
She does not look at me when I walk up. I do not say anything. I fall in beside her and start running.
For a long time, the only sound is our feet hitting the ground. The cold morning air burns in my lungs. My stitches pull with every stride. Lira does not slow down for me, and I do not expect her to. She is angry at herself and at the witch and at the world. I am not far behind her.
When she finally stops, she does not speak. She just nods toward the sparring mats. Our routine. We move through i
