{IRIS}
Morning training with Lord Val was… tolerable.
Fine. It was decent.
—if I ignored the fact that he forced me to memorize a thousand different ways to hold a blade before I was even permitted to swing one.
"Footwork first," he instructed, his voice blank as his face. "A warrior who cannot stand properly shall perish before she has the chance to strike."
He spoke as if reciting scripture.
He stood beside me, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight and regal—like a portrait sprung to life.
Meanwhile, I stood wobbling on the forest floor like a newborn deer. For every slight misstep, every tiny misalignment of my heel, he raised a brow and simply said:
"Again."
He sipped his blood tea with the serenity of a god while my legs trembled beneath the weight of his standards.
By the fifth attempt, my thighs burned and my vision blurred. I was certain my soul was leaving my body through sweat.
Still, he remained patient… maddeningly so.
