Malik had his own sparring partner of equal skill, but he didn’t seem bothered by the additional opportunities for swordplay, shooting, and hand-to-hand combat. When he finished his own regime, he’d hang back and wait until Ash was ready to start their melee all over again. Fortunately, he was an eminently good-natured young man, whose kind smiles and dismissive shrugs had disarmed the apologies Amaris offered each time he had to train for extra hours.

“Move your feet, Ayla!” Ash shouted as he stood over her, cursing her in the southern dialect, insulting her as an oak tree. He’d knocked her to her back once again, just as he always did in swordplay. The shortened variation of her name—Ayla being the word for oak—had become his nickname for her. It was less of a mouthful than Amaris, and a more accurate representation of how her clumsy feet seemed to be rooted to the earth—her moves so slow and timbering that she might as well have been carved from wood. She didn’t mind the nickname. Frankly, she deserved far worse.

Much to the chagrin of her and everyone around her, she did not seem to be improving.

As temperatures dropped with approaching winter, it became infinitely harder for Amaris to train. Her hands were red and chapped with the season. The extra weight of the warmer leathers and elbow-length fur cloak seemed to hinder her movements all the more. Was it possible that she was getting progressively worse? Between her beaten-down spirit, broken body, and the All Mother’s forsaken weather on the mountain, it seemed she grew less impressive with every day that passed. Perhaps she truly was nothing more than an oak tree in a girl’s body.

Still, she pressed on.

Wake up. Run. Train. Spar. Eat. Study. Sleep. Repeat.

After their lunches, most of the men went free for the day. Odrin, however, was responsible for teaching her about poisons, tonics, and the basics of being one’s own combat medic. Reevers usually took on assignments throughout the kingdoms alone, independently dispatched on their missions throughout the territories. Should Amaris ever show a will to survive or the ability to hold her own in battle, she’d need to be able to avoid sabotage, spot healing plants, and know how to patch a wound. Odrin had her tying tourniquets, practicing the art of starting fires with nothing but a stone and one’s weapon, and sniffing goblets of wine or water for signs of tampering. When they finished studying together, he sent her to her rooms each night with a stack of books up to her hip on what plants and creatures were safe to eat and which ones would paralyze, blind, or boil you from the intestines out.

“Isn’t there a magic item or something I could use to do this for me?” she grumbled, pushing away her book on poisons and remedies.