Training (1)

Warren didn't say anything as he followed Vin out of the meeting hall. The building emptied behind them, but he didn't look back.

Vin moved quickly, leading him through a side corridor that curved around the edge of the barracks. They passed two guards who didn't bother to acknowledge them. At the far end of the path was a squat stone building with no markings on the outside. Vin pushed the door open.

Inside was a training room. Wood-paneled floors, dust swept into the corners, racks of practice weapons along the wall. Faint oil and sweat hung in the air, not overwhelming but present. The kind of space that was used often, cleaned often, but never fussed over.

Vin stepped inside without comment, heading straight for the weapon racks.

"This is where you'll train," he said, grabbing two swords.

He tossed one to Warren. A wooden blade, heavier than expected.

Warren caught it with both hands, readjusted.

Vin turned to face him, arms loose at his sides, blade down.

"I'm not going to waste time making you run laps or build muscle. You're already in good shape. Too good. Whatever your body is now, it's not normal."

Warren tilted his head. "What do you mean by that?"

"The Veil enhances your body to peak physical condition. You don't get tired the way others do. No burn in the arms. No shaking in the legs. That kind of body doesn't grow stronger the same way. You want to improve? You need to build Will. And the best way to do that is by fighting."

Warren nodded once.

Vin raised his sword. "Basic stance."

Warren mirrored him. Or tried to.

Vin didn't correct him with words. He struck instead. A short, sudden swing. Warren blocked it by instinct, but barely.

"Too narrow," Vin said. "Widen your base."

Warren adjusted. Another blow came, and another. Quick strikes, all aimed to probe weaknesses. No real intent to harm, but no hesitation either.

"Again," Vin said.

They moved. Blades clacked. Warren was fast enough to keep up, but his form lagged behind. He didn't know where to put his feet half the time. He swung too wide, turned too slow.

Vin didn't let up. He'd pause briefly, then resume with more pressure.

Every time Warren recovered, the next attack came faster.

The bruises started to add up. One hit across the ribs. One on the shoulder. Vin didn't warn him before striking, didn't praise him when he blocked. He just fought. That was the lesson.

After about an hour, Vin stepped back and lowered his blade.

"That's enough."

Warren lowered his own. His arms were sore now, not from fatigue—Vin was right about that—but from impact. He'd blocked a lot, but not everything. His forearms ached.

Vin walked to the rack and slid his sword back in place. "You'll train with Junie tomorrow."

Warren took a breath. "What's her style?"

"Louder. Stronger. Less patience."

Warren nodded. "So she'll try to break me."

Vin didn't answer right away. Then, "Probably."

He headed for the door. Warren started to follow, but Vin stopped just before stepping out.

"If she pushes too hard, say something. If you don't, she'll just keep going."

Warren looked at the training sword in his hand.

"I can take it."

Vin gave a neutral grunt and walked out.

Warren looked around the room.

'Its not perfect but it still beats jail.'

He set the practice sword back in its place and left.

***

The next morning came quickly. Now that Warren had a chance to rest his body felt even more battered than the day before .

'Its lucky Vin decided to call it when he did , If it wasn't for that i don't think i would have been able to get out of bed'

The cold had settled in again.

Warren stood alone in the center of the training space, rolling his wrists and letting the wooden sword hang loosely at his side. Thin frost dusted the edges of the windows, but inside the air was still, waiting.

Didn't mean he felt ready.

He heard her before he saw her. Boots, fast and deliberate.

Then Junie stepped into the doorway.

If Vin was a blade — clean, silent, efficient — Junie was a hammer.

She didn't walk so much as saunter. Like she owned the room, and knew no one could tell her otherwise. Her short red hair was tousled, a few strands sticking out in wild directions. Multiple scars traced her collarbone, just barely visible under the unfastened top layer of her scout uniform. It wasn't regulation-tight. Not even close.

Her jacket was cinched at the waist, but open enough to reveal the cut of her toned stomach underneath. Everything about her looked like it had been shaped for impact — muscle where it counted, curves that didn't bother to hide.

Warren tried to keep his gaze locked at shoulder level.

Didn't work.

She caught the flicker in his eyes and smiled wide, sharp. Like someone who noticed — and approved.

"Well," she said, stretching her arms over her head. Her tone was casual, amused. "You're early. Eager to get beat up, or just wanted to admire the view?"

Warren coughed once and looked away. "I figured you'd be the type to punch someone for being late."

"Oh, I would've." She stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. "But I like punctual boys. It means you're already afraid."

"I'm not."

She laughed. "Even better."

Junie moved over to the weapon rack and grabbed two of the heavier wooden swords. Her movements were effortless. Not graceful — forceful. Like someone used to throwing her weight into every motion.

She tossed one to him. Not softly.

Warren caught it and stepped back to absorb the impact.

"Vin warmed you up yesterday?" she asked.

"Something like that."

"Great. Then I don't have to waste time with footwork drills or the 'philosophy' of fighting." She rolled her eyes, voice mocking. "Essence of battle. Kill or be killed. All that crap."

Warren didn't respond. Not because he disagreed — just because she didn't sound like she cared.

Junie cracked her neck and grinned. "Lesson one: I hit you until you stop letting me. Got it?"

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Then she moved.

Hard.

Her first swing came from high above, a diagonal slash meant to crush. Warren barely caught it on the guard of his blade, the force jolting down his arms.

She didn't pause.

Another strike. Lower. Faster. Warren stepped back. Another. Another.

Junie didn't fight like Vin. She didn't test. She didn't probe. She overwhelmed.

It was like trying to spar with a landslide.

Warren blocked what he could. Took the rest on his arms, his side. He grunted. Slid back. Nearly tripped.

"You're quick," she said between strikes. "But you hesitate. That's why you're getting hit."

"I'm adapting."

"Adapt faster."

She slammed another blow against his guard and pushed him off balance. He rolled back, steadied, and lunged in return.

Junie grinned wider. "There it is."

Their swords clashed. She pushed forward, again and again, until Warren's muscles started to burn — even through whatever resilience his body had now. He tried to match her tempo but couldn't hold it. She just kept swinging.

After twenty more exchanges, he stumbled. Dropped to one knee.

She circled him, not striking, just watching.

"Still conscious?"

He exhaled through his nose. "Barely."

She grinned again. "Good."

Then she stepped forward and whacked him across the shoulder with the flat of her sword.

He collapsed to the mat, gasping.

Junie stood over him, chest rising with breath, face flushed. Her voice was breathless, but smug. "Lesson two: never trust your opponent to stop when you're down."

"Thanks for the tip," Warren muttered.

"You're welcome." She knelt beside him and nudged his ribs with the hilt. "That was decent for your first dance. Vin must've softened you up real nice."

He didn't answer.

She leaned in a little. "Tomorrow, we go harder."

Then she stood up, tossed her sword back on the rack, and left without another word.

Warren stayed where he was for a few seconds longer, staring at the ceiling.

'Maybe I should've chosen death.'