The fire had burnt low; its flames were reduced to glowing embers that cast long, dancing shadows across the stone walls. I sat before it, cross-legged on the fur-covered floor, my eyes closed, my breathing slow and deliberate. Outside my chamber, Frosthold prepared for sleep—the distant sounds of the fortress settling, the occasional footstep in the corridor, and the muffled voices of the night watch making their rounds.
Inside, there was only silence. And fear.
Three days of training with Elara had passed in a blur of exhaustion and small victories. She had taught me the basics of northern combat—how to stand, how to move, and how to fall without breaking. We had practised with wooden practice blades until my arms ached and my hands blistered. We had drilled unarmed techniques until I could execute them in my sleep. But three days was not enough. Not nearly enough.
