Tor's fist tore through the space Jace's head had been an instant before. The gust alone whipped his hair back. He hit the dirt shoulder-first and rolled, instincts firing faster than his mind could form words.
"Tor, what are you—"
The reply came as a backhand, wide and merciless. Jace dropped flat, the strike passing so close he felt the air sting his cheek. No pause, no hesitation—Tor wasn't sparring. He was lashing out with grief honed into violence.
Jace came up in a combat crouch. Tor's size wasn't the only danger; it was the precision behind every movement. Rage gave him power, but training gave that rage form. A storm with patterns if you could read them.
"Fine," Jace muttered, chest tightening as reality clicked into place. "Let's do this."
He closed the gap in a burst of speed, aiming under the giant's guard. His fist hammered Tor's ribs—a strike that would've folded most men in half.
Tor only grunted. No stagger, no give. His hand came sweeping down like a collapsing wall. Jace twisted out before those stone-crushing fingers found purchase.
"Good," Tor rumbled, voice as flat as an anvil. "But not good enough."
Then he charged. The ground shook beneath his strides. Jace's breath caught—there was no dodging raw mass in a confined space. At the last second, training overrode panic. He slipped aside, foot hooking out just enough to trip the momentum. Tor stumbled, but only for a heartbeat. His spin came brutal and fast, the backfist slamming across Jace's shoulder and hurling him sideways.
He winced in pain. His body screamed to stay down, but habit turned the fall into a roll, bringing him back upright with his guard raised.
"My turn." His own voice sounded strained, but defiant.
He shot forward in a blur. The strikes poured out—ribs, thigh, forearm, cheekbone. Each one guided by the cold whisper of knowledge, every angle precise, every pressure point tagged. Any normal opponent would've dropped in seconds.
Tor endured it like rain, then snapped a hand out mid-combo. His grip clamped Jace's wrist like iron, and the next moment Jace was airborne, flung across the training ground like a toy.
The dirt stole his landing with a jolt that rattled his bones. He spat copper, wiped his lip, and rose again. "Weapons?"
Tor's eyes narrowed. "Weapons."
Steel rasped as both drew. Jace's sword slid free, familiar weight settling into his hands, while Tor unslung his massive blade like it was a walking stick.
The giant's first strike fell like judgment. Jace caught it on his edge, the vibration screaming down his arms, then shoved it off-line and drove a thrust at Tor's ribs. The tip scraped armor, drawing blood where it found flesh.
Tor's eyes sharpened. "Better."
Then came the storm. Each swing forced Jace back, metal ringing, the stone floor gouged wherever steel missed. Jace's blade flashed in reply—cuts across the forearm, shoulder, cheek. Small victories. Proof Tor could bleed.
But proof wasn't victory. Tor adapted. His reach pressed tighter, his timing grew cruel. Jace lunged for a killing thrust, only for Tor to shift just enough. The blade slid off harmlessly.
The counterstrike landed like thunder. Jace blocked, but the force ripped his sword free. Fingers went numb. Before he could breathe, Tor's pommel crashed into his gut.
The world folded. Air gone, vision swimming, Jace dropped to his knees fighting not to black out.
"Spears." Tor's voice was steady, unhurried.
Jace could barely nod. He staggered to the rack, hands fumbling until wood steadied them. The spear's weight grounded him.
The clash that followed felt like a dance of reach and rhythm. Jace's movements blurred, his weapon flowing through forms he hadn't known he knew. Strikes snapped out quick and sharp, keeping Tor a step away, landing stings of contact. For a moment, he controlled the pace.
Then Tor's experience cut through. A feint low, baiting his guard, and the shaft of Tor's spear smashed across Jace's temple. The world lurched sideways. His knees hit dirt, spear slipping loose.
"Daggers," Tor said. Approval touched the word this time.
The short blades changed everything. Close, desperate, raw. Jace's speed turned into weaving cuts, knives flickering through every opening. His blades kissed skin, left shallow tracks of blood across arms and face. For a second, he thought—maybe.
Then Tor caught his wrist. The lock was merciless. A dagger drove straight for his heart. Jace barely turned it aside, but the steel still carved along his ribs, hot blood spilling down his side.
The next step wasn't his.
"Enough." Tor lowered his blades and stepped back.
Jace collapsed flat, chest heaving, the sky a bright blur above him. His body ached down to the marrow, every nerve buzzing.
"You did well," Tor said, reaching down with one massive hand. "Better than the others. You made me work."
Dragged upright, Jace's gaze swept the field. Kael slumped against stone, robes clinging with sweat. Dren sat hollow-eyed, pride stripped raw. Elliot's hands twitched near the weapon racks, knuckles white. None of them had fared better.
"What was this about?" Jace rasped.
Tor's face settled back into that carved mask, grief pressing behind the fury.
"Strength. If we're going to face what destroyed Riverfall, we can't be the same men we were yesterday." His eyes flicked toward the others. "They learned it the hard way. You… you might be ready to learn it for real."
Healers hurried in, the scent of salves and herbs following. Jace let them work, though his mind stuck on Tor's words. He had landed blows, proven he could stand against a legend for more than a heartbeat. That should have been enough.
But as the sting of antiseptic hit his ribs, one thought chewed at him: if this was barely surviving Tor, how could any of them survive what was ahead of them?
The answer had to come fast. Faster than pain, faster than grief. Or else none of them would make it.