My routine hardened into a permanent, unyielding rhythm. It was no longer a series of secret actions; it became who I was. The ghostly Lady Thorne who drifted through classes was the illusion. The creature that trained, probed, and observed in the shadows—that was the truth.
The Derelict Courtyard saw new brutality at dawn. I had mastered the baseline of endurance. Now, I needed resilience. I began impact drills. I would press my hands against the cold, rough stone of the wall and shove myself backward, learning to tumble, to roll, to disperse force along my limbs and back rather than absorbing it in my joints. I practiced falling from low heights off the broken bench, teaching my body to go limp, to protect my head, and to rise quickly after the shock. I thought of rocky trails, of being thrown from a saddle, of the chaotic violence of a real fight. Grace was a luxury for southern ballrooms. Here, I sought the ugly, practical knowledge of how to survive a hit.
