Training ended the way it always did.

  With Lyra on her knees.

  Her breath scraped her lungs raw, each inhale sharp and shallow. Sweat soaked her clothes, dirt smeared her palms, her fingers numb from gripping the sword too tightly for too long. Rynor stood a few steps away, silent, watching her like a judge who had already written the verdict.

  “Again,” he said.

  She tried.

  Her legs buckled halfway through the motion. Steel dipped. She caught herself before falling, barely.

  Rynor raised a hand. “Enough.”

  Finn rushed to her side. “That’s it?”

  “That’s all one day buys you,” Rynor replied. “Any more and she goes into the fight broken instead of unready.”

  Lyra forced herself upright. “I can still stand.”

  “Yes,” Rynor said calmly. “That’s the problem. You think standing means ready.”

  She met his eyes. No anger. Just resolve stretched thin.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He didn’t answer.

  The crowd had gathered by midday.

  Not because they cared about honor. Because they cared about spectacle.

  The owner’s fighter stood across from Lyra in the dirt circle. Bigger. Heavier. Armor pieced together from scraps, sword nicked and ugly like it had learned bad habits. His smile was wrong. Nervous, but cruel enough to hide it.

  A coward with permission.

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  Finn hovered near the edge, hands clenched. “You don’t have to—”

  “Yes,” Lyra said quietly. “I do.”

  The signal was given.

  The fighter lunged first. Fast. Too fast for someone pretending this was fair.

  Lyra barely stepped aside, blade coming up just in time. Steel crashed into steel, the sound snapping through the air. Her arms screamed in protest. She slid back, boots carving lines in the dirt.

  She remembered Rynor’s voice.

  Listen.

  The second strike came high. She ducked. Slashed low. Not deep, but enough to make him stumble.

  The crowd reacted. Surprise rippled.

  The fighter snarled and came again. Heavy swings. Brutal arcs meant to break her guard, not outskill it. She blocked one, two, then rolled under a third, dirt filling her mouth, breath exploding out of her chest.

  She rose and struck.

  A clean cut across his arm. Blood spotted the ground.

  Finn shouted her name.

  The fighter’s confidence cracked. Fear flashed. Then anger filled the gap.

  He feinted left and drove forward, shoulder-first, smashing into her. She hit the ground hard. Pain flared white-hot through her ribs.

  She forced herself up anyway.

  They clashed again. Faster now. Louder. Steel rang again and again, each impact rattling her bones. She landed another cut. Then another.

  The crowd leaned in.

  Then he cheated.

  A sudden close step. A twist of the blade. Too fast to stop.

  The strike tore across her front in a brutal diagonal, cloth ripping, pain detonating through her chest and torso. Not a killing blow. A message.

  Lyra gasped and fell.

  Blood darkened the dirt beneath her.

  The crowd went silent.

  Finn screamed.

  The fighter stepped back, breathing hard, eyes wide like he hadn’t meant to go that far. The signal was called. The fight ended.

  Lyra didn’t move.

  Rynor was there before anyone else realized it.

  He dropped to his knees beside her, lifting her carefully. Blood soaked his hands, dripped steadily to the ground, each drop heavy, final.

  Finn collapsed beside them, sobbing openly. “She won… she fought… she didn’t run…”

  Hadrik, the shop owner, stepped forward with a sneer. “Brave little thing. Still lost.”

  He turned to Finn. “Shop’s mine by sunset. Next time, choose better champions.”

  Rynor stood.

  Slowly.

  He looked at Hadrik like a man measuring distance.

  “She fought,” Rynor said. “You hired a blade to hide behind. Remember that.”

  Hadrik scoffed. “And you?”

  Rynor adjusted Lyra’s weight in his arms. “I don’t fight cowards.”

  Then he walked away.

  The maesters worked behind closed doors.

  Finn paced. Blood stained his clothes. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

  Inside, voices murmured. Tools clinked. Orders were given. Repeated.

  Rynor stood against the wall, arms folded, face unreadable.

  Time stretched.

  No one said whether she would wake.

  No one said whether the damage could be undone.

  Only the smell of iron lingered in the air.

  And the waiting began.