18
Alina
Sparring mornings were the worst kind of predictable. The bell rang, boots hit stone, and the air in the training hall turned sharp with sweat and ego. I braced for it the way I always did; chin up, shoulders back, pretending I didn't notice how my ribs still ached from yesterday. We lined up in rows while the instructor barked the pairings, skating his eyes over me with the usual bored contempt of a man certain I wouldn't last the hour.
"Rotate partners after three falls," he called. "If you're on the ground, get up. If you're not on the ground, put someone else there."
Classic Umbra Noctis encouragement.
I barely had time to breathe before a taller boy; a fae with a knife-edge smile, stepped into my circle. He twirled the practice staff in one hand, like he wanted me to admire it. "Try not to cry, Elowen," he said, cheerful in the way people are right before they hurt you for fun.
