A sword, nestled comfortably in its scabbard. My sword, to be exact. My sword, that I haven’t touched in ages. My sword, that I have absolutely no interest in picking up. What good will a sword do me now, when I already know I cannot use it to protect the people I love?

“No,” I say, flopping back down onto my bed, blankets be damned.

A hand—small and strong—closes around my ankle.

“I said, that wasn’t a request.”

And then, with all her might, she pulls.

Goose down muffles the sound of my shriek as Ana manhandles me out of bed and into a set of clean clothes.

If I had the heart for vengeance, I would make it long and painful. But I have the heart for very little. And that, I know, is why Ana is so keen to make me suffer.

“Hit me.”

“I don’t want to.”

The tip of my sword hangs listlessly inches above the ground. I am not so careless as to let it drag, damaging the good and very expensive steel, but it’s heavy. Heavier now than it’s ever been.

Ana puffs out a frustrated breath, her bottom lip directing the exhalation upward to blow an errant lock of hair off her face.

The solarium is hot. Unseasonably so. Normally, this high up on the hills, we are blessed with crisp winds and cool air. But today, even the sky seems listless. Heat clings to the painted stone walls, trapping it in here with us. Beads of sweat form at my temples, at the nape of my neck, trapping my unkempt hair against my skin.

Ana knocks her sword into mine. Gently, but the impact still reverberates up the blade. “Attack me.”

I begin to step away. “Ana—”

“You need to hit something!”

I freeze, my weight half transferred to the ball of my left foot as I cease stepping away. “Is that how you solve all your problems? By hitting things?”

“Not all my problems.” Ana shrugs. “Just most of them.”

It’s almost enough to make me smile. Almost.

Instead of smiling, I sigh.

“If I refuse, will you continue pestering me like this?”

With a grin sharp enough to slice through stone, Ana says, “Yes.”

I stare at her, longing to feel the spark of recognition that razor-sharp grin should incite within me. But all I feel is a stodgy dullness. It’s like the sensation you get in your mouth after a long, hard night of drinking catches up to you in the morning. Except it’s not just in my mouth. It’s everywhere. In the center of my chest, in my heavy legs, in my leaden arms.

“Why?” I ask her.

Why are you doing this?

Why are you making me do this?

Why does any of it matter anymore?