The morning bells rang far too sharply, slicing through the thin hours of sleep Serene had allowed herself. Her ribs throbbed with every breath, slow and stubborn, like a bruise that refused to settle. She sat up carefully, forcing the motion to look normal. The academy valued poise even in pain.
Sunlight filtered through the narrow window, painting the floor in pale gold. Serene stood, adjusted her tunic, tied her braid, strapped her gloves—each movement done with precision, each one sending a small bolt of pain beneath her ribs.
When she stepped into the hallway, Lira joined her silently. The younger girl's eyes scanned Serene's face, lingering too long.
"You didn't sleep," Lira whispered.
"I slept enough."
"That answer doesn't make it true."
Serene didn't reply. She kept walking.
The courtyard was already alive with the restless shuffle of first-years. Some stretched. Some practiced footwork. Some leaned against pillars with the tired slump of people who had been pushed too far.
Rowen stood near the sparring rings, rolling his wrists slowly, controlled, steady as stone. Kael paced like a caged falcon, sharpening his stance. Taren rubbed at his shoulder, complaining loudly to Alden, who listened without comment.
Serene exhaled once—quiet, measured, shallow. Her ribs burned at the end of it.
Instructor Thane entered the yard with the same clipped stride he always carried. His presence tightened the air. Conversations snapped shut. Bodies straightened.
"Form ranks."
The students assembled automatically.
Thane's gaze swept over them, sharp enough to cut. "Yesterday's mixed-division retrieval has given some of you the illusion of progress. Let me be clear: a single success means nothing if your body fails you the next day."
Serene's chest tightened at the words.
Thane continued, "We will begin with sparring rotations. No breaks. No excuses."
A ripple of dread passed through the line.
Serene kept her face blank.
Thane began calling pairs.
"Rowen with Alden.
Kael with Taren.
Mira with Silen.
Serene Valehart with—"
He paused.
Serene felt her pulse hitch.
"—Marian Thorne."
Marian was a second-year. Older, taller, stronger. A clean fighter with a reputation for cracking first-years' confidence early.
Whispers rose.
"Why pair a first-year with a second-year?"
"Is this punishment?"
"Marian hits hard—"
Thane didn't wait. "To the ring."
Marian stepped inside the sparring circle with the easy confidence of someone who had already survived a year of brutality. Her gaze flicked over Serene briefly, then dismissed her.
Serene entered the ring with perfect posture and pain burning beneath her ribs like hidden fire.
Thane folded his arms. "Begin."
Marian moved instantly—a clean, powerful strike meant to test Serene's guard. Serene blocked, but the impact drove a knife of pain into her side so sharply she nearly gasped.
She forced her face still.
Marian smirked. "Slow today, Valehart?"
Serene shifted her stance, adjusting despite the pain. Marian struck again. Serene parried cleanly, but the motion twisted her ribs. The world went briefly grey at the edges.
She blinked rapidly, grounding herself.
Marian didn't slow.
Strike.
Block—pain.
Strike.
Parry—pain.
Serene kept rhythm until her breath grew thin.
Then Marian swept low.
Serene moved too slowly.
Pain exploded.
Her knee hit the ground.
A few gasps sounded around the ring. Marian stepped back with a lazy exhale, lowering her blade.
Thane's voice was sharp steel.
"Stand, Initiate Valehart."
Serene pushed herself up. Her vision wavered. She steadied it. She lifted her blade again.
Marian stepped forward—
And struck hard across Serene's guard.
Pain lanced through her ribs. The force nearly knocked her back. Her breath hitched audibly.
This time, Thane's head snapped toward her.
"Valehart."
She didn't answer.
"Your stance is collapsing."
"I can—"
"That," Thane cut sharply, "was not a question."
Serene's jaw locked. She reset her feet.
Marian's expression shifted—she could see the cracks now. She aimed directly at Serene's left side.
Serene blocked, but her grip slipped. The wooden blade clipped her ribs.
The pain was white.
Bright.
Blinding.
Serene staggered.
Marian hesitated for half a heartbeat—conflicted—but Thane snapped, "Continue, Thorne."
Marian raised her blade again.
Rowen had stopped mid-spar with Alden, eyes locked on Serene. His expression remained unreadable, but his stance had tightened.
Kael had gone still too, a frown pulling at his mouth. Alden watched quietly, something like understanding passing through his gaze.
Lira covered her mouth with her hands.
Serene forced her body upright, sweat cold on her spine.
Marian attacked.
Serene barely blocked.
Thane's voice cracked over the ring, loud enough to echo against the cliffs.
"Valehart! If you cannot maintain your body, you have no place holding a sword!"
Serene's breath shuddered.
Thane stepped closer, voice dropping to something far harsher. "Excuses are for nobles and children. This"—he gestured at her trembling stance—"is disgraceful."
Serene swallowed hard.
He continued, relentless. "You think discipline means silence? You think strength means pretending you're unbroken? Get that thought out of your head. A knight who hides an injury endangers everyone around them."
Marian lowered her blade slowly, waiting for command.
Thane's eyes burned into Serene's. "If your body fails—it is your failure. Not your house's. Not your upbringing's. Not the academy's."
Serene stood frozen, pain radiating in waves.
"And if you cannot fight," Thane said, voice stripping her bare, "then step out now."
The words pierced deeper than any blade.
Serene's breath shook once.
She lifted her sword again.
Voice steady.
"I will continue."
Thane's expression didn't soften. "Then stand properly."
She adjusted her stance with precision—despite her trembling. Despite the agony beneath her ribs. Despite every instinct begging her to stop.
Marian stepped forward for another strike—
But Thane raised a hand.
"Enough."
Marian exhaled shakily, stepping back.
Thane faced Serene fully.
"You will complete the drills," he said coldly. "All of them. Every rotation. And after that, you will report to the healer. Not because you are weak—"
His voice dropped into something harsher, truer.
"—but because knights who cannot care for their own bodies are liabilities. You are responsible for your readiness. Not the academy. Not your classmates. You."
Serene met his gaze, breath unsteady.
Thane pointed to the ring. "Next pair."
She stepped out of the circle with quiet, controlled steps, though each movement stabbed her ribs anew.
Lira rushed to her side immediately. "Serene—Serene, please—"
"I'm fine," Serene whispered, though her vision pulsed.
Rowen passed nearby, blade resting on his shoulder. He paused for a fraction of a second, looking directly at her.
Not pity.
Not softness.
Recognition.
"You hid the injury," he said quietly.
Serene didn't deny it.
Rowen stepped closer—just enough for only she could hear. "Thane wasn't wrong."
She swallowed sharply.
Rowen continued, calm but unyielding. "Discipline isn't silence. It's survival."
Then he walked past her, joining the next rotation.
Serene stood still, breath shallow, ribs aching, Thane's words echoing like hammered steel in her mind.
A knight takes responsibility for their body.
And Serene—
for all her intelligence, all her poise—
finally understood the truth:
Strength was not pretending you didn't hurt.
Strength was knowing when to ask for help.
And she had failed that lesson.
She stepped back into the drills.
She completed every rotation.
She did not collapse.
But when it was over, when the yard finally emptied, when the world grew too quiet—
Serene Valehart walked toward the healer's wing.
Not because someone told her to.
But because for the first time, she realized:
Asking for help
was also discipline.