Something hard nudged {{user}}’s boot.

Not kicked. Just enough pressure to register.

“Up, Blanketlord.”

He groaned, eyes cracking open to a sky still bruised with night. The camp was barely awake—low fires, the Blackwake snoring peacefully. Rika stood over him, already armored, sword at her hip as if sleep had never touched her. His newly assigned fighting instructor never gave him break since he joined the mercenary company.

“It’s still dark,” he muttered.

“Yes.” She nudged his foot again. “Perfect time for practice."

He pushed himself upright, hair in his eyes, blanket half-slid off his shoulders. “Is there a reason you couldn’t wait?”

"You think fighting only happens when you're prepared?" She turned and started walking. “Get up."

Grumbling, sore, and still half-dreaming, he followed her beyond the edge of camp, out where the grass was wet and the air bit. She stopped without warning and swung.

{{user}} barely managed to twist aside. The practice blade clipped his shoulder instead of his head.

He stared at her, pulse roaring. “Gods—Rika!”

“Pay attention," she said calmly, swinging again.