Purple bleeds across the skin of my knuckles and jaw as a metallic tang stains my tongue.

​

    “That was pathetic,” a lazy voice drawls from behind me and sweat beads my brow. I can only cough in response as I try to push myself from the icy floor I’ve landed against.

 

    The hard toes of fighting boots lodge into my ribs before I have a chance to rise any further than a crawling position. The kick sends me back to the ground and I can’t catch the breath ripped from my lungs.

​

    My mentor crashes his foot into my abdomen again as I stay silent, knowing better than to ask him to stop, but refusing to cry out. In battle, my opponent would never show such mercy. In turn, neither will he.

 

    When he finally stops, Finley Vetta’s hand curls into my hair, peeling me from the stone and pulls me to my knees though my body barks in protest.

 

    “To allow your enemy to bring you to the ground is to fail. It is to admit loss and accept death,” he growls in my face. “When you fall, it is nearly impossible to rise again. You no longer have any upper hand in your fight. If I were your opponent, you would be dead.”

 

    His olive eyes burn with enough bloodlust that I hope to whatever gods are out there that I never have to truly face him in a battle, knowing I could never win. “Understand?”

 

    I choke past the lump forming in my throat. “Yes, sir.”

 

    “Lovely.”

 

    He releases my hair and I crumble to the floor as if I’m nothing more than a doll. The eight years before coming to the academy did little to prepare me for this first year. Despite myself, a sharp cry spills from my lips as my injuries hit the unforgiving stone. The pain blurs my vision and I watch as Vetta strolls from the room, wiping blood, my blood, from his knuckles with a handkerchief.

 

    He doesn’t spare me another glance as the door of the training room echoes closed behind him.

 

    It takes me far too long to find the strength to rise to my feet and even longer to make it to my room. I would stay curled up on the floor all night if I could, but if anybody would see me in such a state, everything Vetta just said to me would be proven true. My pupils would never hesitate to go for the kill.

 

    So, I manage to drag myself to the cramped bedroom where I resist the urge to simply collapse on the small cot resting in its center. Instead, I force myself to wrap my abdomen, wincing at the pressure on ribs that I’m sure are bruised. I leave the responsibility of bathing for the morning and rub salve on the cuts decorating my skin. It’s the only thing I can do to prepare for the next day.

 

    Tomorrow, I will be stronger.

 

    I will last longer in combat, if only just a minute more.

 

    I will not be weak forever.