The training hall stretched before me like a cathedral of polished wood and vaulted shadows, its honey-colored floorboards gleaming under the slanting light of the afternoon sun. It was large enough for two hunters—or warriors—to circle one another endlessly, yet intimate enough that every movement, every shift of weight, would be felt and remembered. I wrapped my fingers tightly around the hilt of the wooden practice sword Reagan had given me. Lighter than steel, yes, but in the sudden hush of the room, it felt weighty with intent, a conduit for resolve and defiance.
I squared my shoulders and pressed my boots against the grain of the floor, feeling the friction steady my stance. A cold, sharp resolve settled in my gut, coiling like a steel wire through my spine. I had faced expert fight
