Training at Mara's safehouse was significantly less luxurious than I'd expected.
By which I mean: we were in a field behind the building, standing in mud, while Mara shouted instructions like a particularly aggressive gym teacher.
"Again!" she called from her position near the tree line. "You're telegraphing your moves, Azryth can see you coming from a mile away."
"That's because he's had five hundred years of practice," I muttered, wiping sweat from my forehead. "I've had like, two weeks."
"Two weeks is plenty of time to learn not to broadcast your intentions like a neon sign." She gestured impatiently. "Again. And this time, actually try to land a hit."
Azryth stood across from me, looking annoyingly composed despite the fact that we'd been at this for over an hour. Not even sweating, his hair still perfect. I kind of hated him.
"Whenever you're ready," he said, and I could hear the amusement in his voice.
I lunged.
