It was not an entirely gray, lifeless run. The trail, like the keep, was dotted with tenacious little plants, including some scraggly pines that hung out of fissures in the stones, having found a way to survive high up in the mountains. Amaris had no time for sightseeing. She was too busy ensuring that she didn’t make a wrong step, lest she tumble to her death and spare the reevers from the tribulations of having to raise a girl in their keep.

Running was the tip of the iceberg with these men.

After lunch came daily combat training, including weapons sparring, archery, and hand-to-hand fighting. If she wasn’t exhausted enough to long for death after her run, they ensured she begged for a swift and merciful end within the first few minutes of combat.

When it came to weaponry, not only could Amaris not swing a metal sword, she could barely hold one. Her arms would have been too weak for the blade even before her runs, but the taxing exercise had turned her body into marmalade. They’d permitted Amaris the use of the wooden training swords intended for children, which, thank the All Mother, she still technically was. When she wasn’t wielding her wooden weapon, much to her ever-growing humiliation, young Brel would lunge, slash, and advance on invisible opponents with triple the grace that she possessed.

Amaris was exceptionally disappointing as a new recruit, particularly as nothing came naturally to her. The singular quality she possessed was tenacity. If the goddess was good, an unwillingness to quit might just be enough to justify her presence.

The kindest reevers kept their comments to themselves. Others made no attempt to conceal their irritated groans, eye rolls, or overall displeasure as they continued to watch her flounder at every task. At least with running, she spent the majority of her time by herself. Sparring came with the shame of an audience.

She failed to parry time and time again. Amaris received blow after blow to the ribs, to the face, to the legs. She limped to bed each evening covered in purple bruises from neck to navel, refusing to whimper in front of the men, having never landed a single hit to Ash. Every night she’d test her bones for breaks in the bath and seemed to be single-handedly depleting the reev’s supply of healing tonics in her desperation to stay on top of her injuries.

Ash was always kind but seemed relentlessly disappointed that his partner didn’t put up more of a fight. Not only did it dampen his morale to thoroughly pummel his opponent each day, but it also meant he had to spend extra hours in the ring with Malik just to get in proper competition. Ash and Malik were a far better sparring match. Had she not arrived, they would have doubtlessly remained paired. She hated herself for holding Ash back in his training.