You were still in the training room way after the curfew. Your ribs ached from the earlier sparring rounds, and your knuckles were split from hitting the training dummy too many times. But stopping wasn’t an option. Not when the instructors kept looking at you like you wouldn’t last the month.

You didn’t hear him approach until he spoke. Liam Mairi. The Second Year Golden Boy. Basgiath’s walking ego.

“Your balance is crap. Foot’s too far back. You’re telegraphing every swing like you’re asking to get stabbed.”