{IRIS}
Morning training with Lord Val was... tolerable.
Fine. It was decent.
—if I ignored the fact that he forced to morize a thousand different ways to hold a blade before I was even permitted to swing one.
"Footwork first," he instructed, his voice blank as his face. "A warrior who cannot stand properly shall perish before she has the chance to strike."
He spoke as if reciting scripture.
He stood beside , hands clasped behind his back, posture straight and regal—like a portrait sprung to life.
anwhile, I stood wobbling on the forest floor like a newborn deer. For every slight misstep, every tiny misalignnt of my heel, he raised a brow and simply said:
"Again."
He sipped his blood tea with the serenity of a god while my legs trembled beneath the weight of his standards.
By the fifth attempt, my thighs burned and my vision blurred. I was certain my soul was leaving my body through sweat.
Still, he remained patient... maddeningly so.
Lord Val was, without question, a perfectionist. The kind who would straighten the battlefield before fighting upon it.
And then ca hell.
Afternoon training with Sebastian was no refined academy.
It was a battlefield—and I was the sacrificial offering.
If Lord Val’s teaching was patience and perfect, Sebastian’s thod was the physical manifestation of violence.
At least today, he claid he would teach the basics. He started with how to block, how to punch, and how to dodge.
He even corrected my form without punching in the face, which felt dangerously close to kindness.
It lasted ten minutes.
Then Sebastian, dear rciless Sebastian, seed to recall that he was a centuries-old vampire forged from steel and shadow—and I was a werewolf who broke if the wind blew too hard.
WHAM.
My world flipped. My body sailed through the air, my arms flailing uselessly as I flew backward.
I t the earth with a sound that surely echoed into the next dinsion.
I lay there, staring up at the sky, stars dancing mockingly in my vision.
"I thought," I croaked, "we were doing... basics."
Sebastian had the audacity to shrug. "I did warn you to block."
LIES.
ABSOLUTE LIES.
And so the tornt continued.
So days were tolerable; others ended with face-first in the dirt, contemplating my life choices. Good thing I healed fast. Bad thing? Pain still existed.
By the fourth day, I made a startling discovery:
Sebastian hated .
Truly. Deeply. Passionately.
No one could "accidentally" punch soone that hard that many tis. No one "forgot" to hold back this often.
Whenever I glared at him, he rely arched a brow—bored, as if I were the unreasonable one.
This was personal.
And so, one afternoon, I decided to test my theory.
"Sebastian," I said, stretching my bruised limbs with all the grace of a dying spider. "Are you, perhaps . . . trying to kill ?"
He had the nerve to look mildly offended. "If I intended to kill you, Lady Iris, you would already be dead."
I stared at him. "That is the least comforting thing anyone has ever said to ."
He rolled his eyes—rolled his eyes at . "Stop whining. You heal quickly enough."
I gasped. "So you are hitting on purpose!"
His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough to be a threat.
Oh, I was going to fight this old man.
My attempt at revenge ended, regrettably, with flying again.
"Better," he said, observing my limp body on the ground. "But try not to get hit next ti."
"Oh, brilliant advice," I wheezed. "Why did I not think of that?"
By week’s end, my body felt like a mosaic of fresh and fading bruises. My arms, my legs, even places I didn’t know could bruise... bruised.
I had developed a new survival instinct: always assu a punch was coming.
The good news? I was getting faster at dodging.
The bad news? Sebastian saw this as an invitation to level up my training.
Still, I refused to break.
I had survived years of bullying in my pack.
I had survived being hunted by monsters in the night.
I had survived the first week of Sebastian’s brutality.
Surely I could survive him.
...Probably.
One afternoon, I found myself soaring toward a tree again—nothing new. Pain curled through my ribs as I slumped to the ground, wheezing. A tallic tang coated my tongue; I spat blood into the grass.
Sebastian did not hold back. Not once. Not for even a heartbeat.
My vision swayed. I blinked hard, expecting another blow. But then...
Silence.
I lifted my head slowly, expecting him to lunge, but instead...
He was frozen.
Perfectly still.
His gaze lifted toward the darkening sky, his brows furrowed, his jaw taut.
Concern.
Actual concern.
I frowned. Was this a trick? Psychological warfare? Was he about to strike the mont I let my guard down?
Before I could complete the thought, he seized my wrist hard enough to make yelp.
"Wh—Sebastian? What are you—"
The world vanished.
The forest, the clearing, the trembling leaves—gone.
Instead, suffocating blackness swallowed everything.
I felt cold stone press against my back. The damp air reeked of rot and old blood. Iron bars rose before , tall and rusted.
A dungeon.
My night vision flickered to life, allowing to see what the shadows concealed—mildew-soaked walls, water dripping from the ceiling, pools of stagnant darkness forming on the floor.
"What is happening?" I demanded, spinning toward him.
Sebastian did not answer. He stepped outside the cell with calm, asured steps.
CLANG.
The iron door slamd shut. The lock slid into place with a sound that chilled my bones.
I lunged forward, fingers curling around the cold bars. "Sebastian!? Why did you lock in here?"
His face was unreadable, carved from ice. "Remain here, Lady Iris. I will return for you later."
"What—later?! Sebastian, what is going on?"
He said nothing.
The torchlight flickered once, casting shadows across his face.
Then—
He vanished.
Swallowed by darkness.
Leaving alone.
Imprisoned.
And trembling in a cell that felt far too prepared... as if made for sothing far more dangerous than .
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