The training yard was empty when Mirena returned.
She had rested, eaten, sat alone in her room with her thoughts. Now she was back. The sun was lower, the shadows longer, the stones cooler beneath her feet. A few soldiers had been training earlier, but they had gone. The servants had cleared the water buckets and practice dummies. The yard was hers.
She stood in the center and closed her eyes.
The battle-mages had taught her forms. Shields. Wards. Focused strikes. Ways to shape light into something that could protect, could blind, could hurt. But they had taught her something else too. Something they didn't put into words.
Control.
She raised her staff. The crystal glowed—faint, steady, controlled. She held it there, not pushing, not forcing. Just letting the light be what it was.
A shield formed. Not the solid wall she had been practicing, but something smaller. Tighter. A disc of light that hovered before her, steady and still.
She held it.
One breath. Two. Three.
She let it go. The light faded. The air was empty again.
---
She opened her eyes.
Lira was sitting on the bench at the edge of the yard, her bow across her knees, watching. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.
Mirena raised her staff again.
This time she moved. The shield came with her, shifting as she shifted, staying between her and where an enemy might be. She walked the length of the yard, then back. The shield held.
She stopped. Let it fade.
"Better," Lira said.
Mirena nodded. "Better."
---
Grog came as the light began to fade.
He moved slowly, his arm still bandaged, his side still wrapped, but he was moving. He sat on the bench beside Lira, watched Mirena work.
"She's been at it all day," Lira said.
"I know."
"You've been watching."
"I've been thinking."
Lira looked at him. "About what?"
He was quiet for a moment. "About the battle-mages. The ones who taught her. They've been doing this their whole lives. Training. Preparing. Learning to fight things that most people don't know exist."
Lira followed his gaze. Mirena was raising a shield, holding it, dropping it. Raising it again.
"And now she's one of them."
Grog shook his head. "She's something else."
---
Mirena stopped as the sun touched the walls.
Her arm was shaking, her face pale, her breath coming in gasps. The staff felt heavy in her hand, heavier than it had in the morning. But the light in the crystal was steady. Brighter than it had been when she started.
She walked to the bench, sat beside Grog. Said nothing for a long moment.
"The battle-mages," she said finally. "They've been watching me. Training me. They say I'm learning faster than they expected."
Grog nodded. "That's good."
She looked at her staff. "They asked me to stay. After this is over. To finish my training. To become one of them."
He was quiet for a moment. "And?"
She met his eyes. "I told them I'd think about it."
---
Lira stood. Picked up her bow. Walked to the center of the yard.
"Show me," she said.
Mirena looked at her. "What?"
"Show me what you've learned. For real. Not just standing still. Not just practice." She raised her bow. "I'm going to shoot at you. You're going to stop it."
Mirena stared at her. "You're going to—"
"I'm not going to hit you. I'm not going to hurt you. But you need to know if this works when it's real." Lira's voice was steady. "The beast was real. What's coming is real. Standing in a yard, raising shields against nothing—that's not enough."
Mirena looked at Grog. He nodded.
She stood. Walked to the center of the yard. Raised her staff.
"I'm ready."
---
Lira drew.
The arrow appeared—solid, real, the fletching dark against the fading light. She aimed at Mirena's chest. Held.
"Now."
She released.
The arrow flew.
Mirena's shield came up.
The arrow hit it—and stopped. The light shimmered, rippled, held. The arrow hung in the air for a moment, then fell, its magic spent, its form dissolving into light.
Mirena stood behind her shield, breathing hard.
Lira lowered her bow. "Again."
---
They worked until the light was gone.
Lira shot from different angles, different distances, different speeds. Mirena raised her shield, held it, let it fall. She learned to move it, to shift it, to keep it between her and the arrows no matter where they came from.
She learned to do more than one thing at once.
A shield here. A burst of light there. A ward that turned an arrow aside before it reached her.
By the end, she was exhausted. Her arm was shaking, her legs were trembling, her mind was a blur of light and motion. But she was standing. The shield was up. The arrows were falling.
Lira lowered her bow. "That's enough."
Mirena let the shield fade. The light died. The yard was dark.
---
They sat on the bench together.
The stars were coming out, one by one, cold and distant. The palace was quiet, the servants gone, the soldiers at their posts. It was just them.
"You're getting better," Lira said.
Mirena shook her head. "I'm getting less terrible."
"That's the same thing."
Grog stood. He'd been quiet for the last hour, watching, thinking. Now he moved to the center of the yard, picked up the practice sword he'd left there that morning.
"You need to learn something else," he said.
Mirena looked at him. "What?"
"To fight without the staff. When you can't use it. When you have nothing left." He held out the sword. "This is what you'll have."
She stared at the sword. "I don't know how to—"
"You'll learn."
She took it. The weight was wrong, the balance wrong, the feel of it nothing like her staff. She held it the way she'd seen Grog hold his, the way Aldric held his, the way William was learning to hold his.
"Like this?" she asked.
He moved behind her, adjusted her grip, her stance, her feet. "Like this."
She swung. The sword moved through the air, clumsy, slow, nothing like the staff that had become an extension of her arm.
"Again," Grog said.
She swung again.
"Again."
Again.
---
They worked in the dark.
The moon rose, pale and cold, casting shadows across the yard. Mirena's arm was screaming, her hands were raw, her back was aching. But she kept swinging. Kept moving. Kept learning.
Lira watched from the bench. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.
After an hour, Grog stopped her.
"That's enough."
Mirena lowered the sword. Her hands were shaking.
"I'll never be good at this," she said.
He shook his head. "You'll be good enough."
She looked at the sword in her hands. The blade was dull, the grip worn, the weight nothing like her staff. But it was a weapon. It was something.
"Good enough for what?"
He met her eyes. "To stay alive until you can get your staff back."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded slowly.
"Good enough for that."
---
They walked back to the palace together.
The corridors were quiet, the servants gone, the torches low. Mirena's arm was burning, her back was aching, her hands were raw. But she was still standing. She was still walking.
At her door, she stopped.
"Tomorrow," she said. "I'll keep practicing. The shields. The wards. The sword." She looked at Grog. "I'll be ready."
He nodded. "You will."
She went inside.
Grog stood in the corridor for a moment, looking at the closed door. Then he walked to his own room, sat on his bed, stared at the ceiling.
In the old timeline, Mirena had been a scholar. A researcher. Someone who looked for answers in books, in texts, in the things that had been written down by people who were already dead. She had died in a cavern, her staff broken, her spells exhausted.
Now she was learning to be something else. Something more.
He closed his eyes.
It was a good thing.