The morning sun was still climbing when Liora shoved a wooden practice sword into Reynar's hands.
"First rule," she said, tying her hair back into a short braid, "don't die."
Reynar barely had time to lift the sword before her boot connected with his ribs and sent him sprawling into the dirt.
"Second rule," she added, circling him, "don't hesitate."
He groaned, coughing dust. "You said this was training. Not murder."
"This is training," Liora said flatly. "If I wanted you dead, you wouldn't be breathing."
The clearing behind her house had been converted into a rough training ground: crates, worn dummies, some old targets riddled with knife holes. Birds chirped overhead, oblivious to the pain being handed out below.
"Again," she ordered.
Reynar climbed to his feet, chest burning. He raised the wooden sword, adjusted his stance, and charged.
She dodged easily. Countered. Slapped his wrist. Kicked his shin.
Down he went again.
The cycle repeated. Again. And again.
By noon, he was soaked in sweat and coated in bruises. Liora hadn't broken a sweat.
"You're slow," she said. "And predictable."
"Thanks for the encouragement," he muttered.
She tossed him a waterskin. "You don't need encouragement. You need survival instinct."
He drank greedily, then asked between breaths, "Why do you even care if I survive?"
She paused. Just for a moment.
"I don't," she said. "But I hate wasting time. If you're going to be here, you may as well be useful."
But Reynar noticed it. The hesitation in her voice. The way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't watching.
That evening, after more drills, Reynar collapsed beside the fire in her home, too tired to move. His arms felt like wet noodles. His legs were jelly. His pride was shattered.
Liora placed a bowl of stew in front of him.
"You're improving," she said.
"Seriously?"
"You lasted more than five seconds that time."
He grinned weakly. "So you were keeping track."
"Only because I was impressed. Didn't think you'd survive the first ten minutes."
He looked up, and for the first time, she smiled — a small, crooked thing that disappeared just as quickly.
Over the next few days, the routine solidified.
Liora was still tough. Still ruthless. But she corrected his form more gently. She showed him how to move with intention, not panic. How to read an opponent's eyes. How to anticipate. How to breathe.
Sometimes, she even laughed when he fumbled.
And at night, after training, they talked.
Not much. But enough.
She told him about old hunts in the forest, the creatures that stalked the night. About the stars over Eldwyn and how the northern constellations danced in summer.
She never mentioned her past.
But when Reynar asked about the scar across her shoulder, she didn't change the subject this time. She just said:
"Reminders."
On the sixth morning, as they sparred under grey clouds, Reynar surprised her.
She came in with a sweeping arc — same as always.
But this time, he ducked. Pivoted. Thrust.
His wooden sword tapped her ribs.
Liora stepped back, eyes widening slightly.
Reynar froze.
"…Did I just—?"
"Hit me," she confirmed, then chuckled. "Congratulations. You're now officially less useless than yesterday."
He let out a breathless laugh, grinning despite the bruise blooming on his jaw.
But Liora's expression softened for real this time. Just a little.
"I meant what I said," she added. "You're improving."
"Thanks to you," he said.
"No," she replied. "Thanks to you not giving up."
That night, after dinner, Liora handed him a cloth-wrapped bundle.
Inside was a short steel blade — real, not practice.
"It's yours now," she said. "I sharpened it this morning."
He looked up. "You trust me with this?"
"I trust you not to stab yourself with it," she smirked.
Then, more quietly, "And I trust that you'll keep trying."
Reynar held the blade gently. It wasn't just steel.
It was proof — that he wasn't the same helpless boy anymore.
And maybe… just maybe… Liora was beginning to believe in him, too.