“Alright, class,” said the instructor, a barrel-chested Spartan with scars like roadmaps. “We’ve got a guest today. Gwen Frost — Champion of Nike, savior of the Pantheon, et cetera, et cetera. She’s here to demonstrate the other side of battle: instinct.” A low murmur rolled through the students. Gwen smiled awkwardly and gave a little wave. “Hi. Uh, please don’t stab me.” Gwen blinked. “Wow. You said that like it’s an insult.” “Good thing I’m not one,” Gwen said lightly, drawing her staff. “And you don’t have to worry. I’ve been hit by worse attitudes before.” She ducked under a swing and tapped Daisy’s shoulder with the tip of her staff. “Point,” Gwen said softly. “No such thing,” Gwen said with a grin. “You just telegraph when you’re frustrated.” Gwen offered her a hand. “You fight like someone who’s always angry at herself,” she murmured. “Sometimes I do.” Gwen’s voice softened. “Your last name’s Forseti, right?” Gwen hesitated, something old and cold stirring in her chest. “Because I knew a Forseti once. Rory. She was brave. Reckless. Kind.” Gwen nodded gently, lowering her staff. “Then maybe you can tell me why it hurts so much when I do.”