While I struggled through the last few reps, Selene crouched beside me, close enough that the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine and polished steel drifted from her armour, hitting my nose. It was a cruel contrast, something delicate and deadly hovering over my gasping, sweat-soaked ruin.
She didn't speak at first. Just watched. Her eyes narrowed, studying every tremble in my arms, every laboured rise and fall of my chest, the way my belly still sagged toward the dirt like it had its own gravity. I thought she would mock me again, twist the knife with another casual insult.
Instead, she tilted her head slightly, as though seeing something she hadn't expected. ''You're still shaking,'' she commented, almost thoughtful. ''But at least you're not crying as I expected.''
The words landed heavier than any kick. I finished the rep, arms quivering so violently the gravel beneath my palms felt like it was vibrating in sympathy. My lungs burned. My vision pulsed black at the edges. I collapsed onto my forearms, forehead pressed to the dirt, tasting salt and iron.
Selene stayed crouched, elbows resting on her thighs, watching me like a sculptor deciding whether the marble was worth another strike of the chisel. ''Most men would have begged by now, or made excuses. At least looked at me with hate.''
I couldn't answer. Could only breathe in shallow, ragged pulls. She reached out and gripped my chin with two gloved fingers, tilting my face up so I had to meet her gaze. Her eyes were unreadable. ''You hate the body,'' she said. ''Not me. Not the training.''
I swallowed as her grip hurt, but she guessed. She held my gaze a moment longer, then released me. ''Interesting, there's more to this new prince than meets the eye,'' she murmured, almost to herself.
Then she stood in one smooth motion and stepped back. ''Finish the set,'' she instructed, voice flat once more. ''Then you're Garrick's to train.''
She turned away, cape snapping behind her like a dismissal. I stayed down for three heartbeats, long enough to feel every bruise, every tear, every place the old prince's indulgence had left me weak. Then I pushed myself up again because I knew she was right. I hated the body.
Garrick waited until her footsteps faded. Then he stepped closer, voice calm as ever. ''Drop again. Push-up position. Hold it.''
I obeyed. Arms shaking worse than before. Belly sagging. Thirty seconds felt like thirty years. ''Lower. Chest to dirt. Then back up. No momentum. Control.''
I did five more before collapsing face-first. Garrick crouched beside me, close enough that I could smell the leather and smoke on him. ''You think this is punishment?'' he asked quietly. ''This is mercy. Out there.''
He jerked his head toward the distant walls of Riverrun. ''You'll have to do this with arrows flying, blades coming, mana burning through your veins. You'll do it tired and bleeding. You'll do it when you think you're done. Now get up.''
Following that, I did the best that I could. Legs shaking, body aching. My vision was swimming thanks to the exhaustion overwhelming me. But as I stood and tried to breathe. Garrick studied me for a long moment, then nodded. ''That's enough for now.''
The older man jerked his thumb east. ''We're not finishing here. Not with half the towns' drunks watching and the other half betting on how long it takes you to cry for your mother.''
He turned and walked toward the stables, which were at the side of the tavern. Didn't look back. I followed every step in a fresh negotiation with pain. Garrick's horse was tied there, along with another horse, saddled, waiting. A pack mule stood beside it, loaded with two canvas bags.
''You're serious,'' I muttered.
Garrick untied the second horse's reins and tossed them at me. He swung up into his saddle in one smooth motion that shouldn't have been possible for a man his age and size. ''We're going to the old Royal Hunting villa. Three miles west. Quiet, private and a good place to train.''
His dark eyes met mine. ''And no one to hear you scream when I finally find out if there's anything worth salvaging inside that body.''
I stared at the saddle. My hands shook so badly the reins slipped once before I caught them. The horse shifted, nostrils flaring at the smell of sweat and blood clinging to me. ''How long?''
Garrick nudged the bay forward a step. ''As long as it takes. A month. Two. Three. Until you either become something useful… or until I decide you're wasting my time.''
He looked back over his shoulder. ''Mount up. You've got nothing left in your legs, so you might as well ride while you still can.''
I looked at the saddle again. Looked at my torn palms. Glanced at the track vanishing into the town. Then I put one bloody hand on the pommel, gritted my teeth against the fresh flare of pain that shot up my arm, and hauled myself up. The horse snorted. I swayed dangerously for a heartbeat, vision blurring black at the edges, but I found the other stirrup.
My fat thighs screamed in protest; every muscle felt like it was tearing anew. Garrick watched the entire struggle without a word. When I was finally upright, he gave the smallest nod. No approval. Just an acknowledgement that I hadn't fallen on my face trying. ''Move out,'' he commanded, and turned his horse down the track.
As Garrick and I moved through Riverrun, people were going about their business after glancing at me. The rest of the guards, including Lily, were behind us. After some time, we made our way to the eastern gate; the towns' clamour faded behind us, replaced by the low murmur of the nearby lake outside the walls.
I glanced back once we got outside and caught sight of town guards still drilling on the far side of the field. Behind me, the Verona Legionnaires looked every inch the fantasy version of ancient Romans, but wore black armour instead of steel; they were a mix of men and women. Females on Lumira were stronger than those back on Earth.
Their armour gleamed in black plates trimmed with blood-red accents, and their shoulder pauldrons were edged in crimson. Each one wore a helmet similar to their Earth counterparts and a red cape to keep the cold at bay. I noticed each soldier carried a heavy rectangular shield, but reinforced with Verona Iron that caught the light like obsidian.
Then there was a wicked spear whose leaf-shaped head was blackened to prevent glare. I also caught sight of the swords on their belts. They moved in tight, disciplined blocks, shields locked, spears thrusting in perfect unison. Behind those marched the Lion Guard, the warriors my father hired to protect me, and they were the opposite of the Veronians.
Where the Legionnaires were grim and utilitarian, the Lion Guard dripped menace and majesty in equal measure. Their armour was polished black as midnight, chased with gold that traced lions rampant across breastplates, greaves, and the tall crested helms that rose like crowns of flame.
The gold caught every stray ray of sunlight, turning them into living statues of power, ornate, intimidating, almost ceremonial, yet you could see the razor edge beneath the beauty. They carried longswords or halberds, but their stance promised they could explode into violence in a heartbeat.
The contrast hit me harder than any rep I'd just failed: one force built to grind armies into dust through sheer discipline; the other designed to break wills before the first blow landed. Garrick noticed my stare. ''Our Legions break the line,'' he said quietly, nodding toward the black-and-red ranks. ''The Lion Guard breaks the spirit. You'll need both if you're going to survive what's coming.''
Without responding, I followed, mind already turning over the two very different kinds of death waiting out there, one cold and methodical, the other gleaming and merciless. Ahead, the trees closed in around us. The first cool breath of evening air touched my skin, still burning from the morning's abuse.
No crowd. No potions. No mercy. Just Garrick's broad back, the creak of leather, the slow clop of hooves… and the quiet, terrible certainty that whatever waited at that villa, I would either come out the other side stronger, or I wouldn't come out at all. I turned around and spotted a line of carriages carrying the staff my father had sent along with the Lion Guards.
The road west from Riverrun narrowed quickly, cobblestones giving way to packed earth and broken stone. The lake's murmur faded behind us, replaced by the low rustle of beech and oak leaves stirring in the evening breeze. Garrick rode ahead at a steady walk, never hurrying, never glancing back.
I clung to the saddle, every jolt sending fresh protests through my thighs, my back, my blistered palms wrapped around the reins. The horse was a sturdy gelding who clearly preferred not to carry dead weight, flicked an ear at my uneven breathing, but otherwise ignored me.
Behind us, the Lion Guard and the carriages kept a respectful distance, armour glinting faintly whenever the trees parted enough for the last sunlight to strike them. I didn't look back again. The sight of all that luxury rolling along in our wake only made the ache in my body feel more humiliating.
We passed a crumbling stone marker half-swallowed by ivy, then a stretch of road flanked by tall reeds. The air grew cooler, damper. Somewhere nearby, a stream chuckled over rocks. Garrick finally spoke without turning his head. ''Keep your eyes open. We're leaving the patrolled roads.''
I swallowed dryly. ''Monsters?''
''Things that crawled out of the old rifts when the mana storms first broke the sky. Most stay deeper in the forest, but hunger makes them bold.''
He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. The weight of the words settled into the spaces between hoofbeats. The sun dipped lower, painting the canopy in bruised purples and dying golds. My exhaustion had passed into that strange, hollow place where pain becomes background noise, like the drone of cicadas.
I focused on breathing in time with the horse's stride: in for four steps, out for four. Anything to keep from thinking about how far I still had to fall before I could call myself anything other than a ruin. After what felt like an hour but was probably less, the trees began to thin. The road curved gently uphill.
Garrick reined in at the crest and waited for me to draw level. ''There,'' he said, nodding forward.
I followed his gaze. Nestled in a shallow valley ahead stood the Verona Hunting Villa. Even at this distance, it looked more like a fortress than a home. High walls of limestone, weathered but solid, ringed the estate like a clenched fist. Iron spikes crowned the ramparts; torchlight already flickered along the walkway, tiny orange stars against the deepening dusk.
The main building rose behind the wall, three stories of arched windows and slate roofs, flanked by two towers that looked old enough to remember the Empire's fall. A heavy gate of black iron stood closed, flanked by braziers. It was beautiful in the way old blades are beautiful, elegant, functional, and promising violence to anything foolish enough to test it.
''No one's lived here regularly since my father's father,'' Garrick said, voice low. ''The wall's been maintained, though. Wards on the stones. The Verona family doesn't let its properties rot.''
I stared at the distant lights. ''Safe from monsters?''
''Safe enough,'' he answered. ''Nothing gets through those wards without waking half the valley. And if something does.''
He patted the broad-headed axe strapped to his saddle. ''We finish it the old-fashioned way.''
My horse shifted beneath me, sensing my sudden stillness. I realised my hands had tightened on the reins without meaning to; I was thinking it was my new prison, making me nervous. Garrick glanced sideways at me. ''You're thinking it looks like a prison.''
I didn't answer right away. The villa did look like a prison, beautiful, ancient, and utterly inescapable. But it also looked like a promise: three months, six months, a year, whatever it took, inside those walls, no crowds, no courtiers, no excuses. Just me, the old man, Selene and the slow, brutal work of remaking a body I despised.
''Looks like a place where people get stronger,'' I said finally. My voice sounded scraped raw. ''Or disappear trying.''
Garrick gave the smallest grunt, maybe approval, maybe just acknowledgement. He nudged his horse forward again. ''Come on, princeling. Let's get you inside before the night things start hunting.''
I followed, the villa growing larger with every step, its walls rising like a judgment I had already accepted. The gate loomed closer, the torchlight painting long shadows across the road. Somewhere beyond those stones waited a bed, a bath, and tomorrow's pain. For the first time in hours, I didn't dread the next sunrise quite so much.