Training was brutal. The first time I lifted a sword, it was too heavy. My fingers ached from gripping the hilt, my arms trembled as I struggled to keep my stance. The other trainees—young men bred for war—watched me with skepticism, their laughter thinly veiled.
"The king's pet," they sneered. "A girl with a wooden sword."
I ignored them. I had no room for doubt.
Cyrus assigned me to General Varlen, a seasoned warrior with a sharp tongue and an even sharper blade. He didn't coddle me, didn't offer words of encouragement. Every morning before dawn, he had me run laps around the training grounds until my legs threatened to give out. Every evening, I sparred until my fingers bled.
But there was one thing that set me apart.
The curse mark.
I found it by accident one evening, after stripping off my tunic to change. A dark sigil, embedded into the flesh above my heart. I didn't remember when it appeared—perhaps the night Windmere fell. All I knew was that it burned in the heat.
I learned quickly that I could not bathe in warm water, that hot food scorched my throat even when it should not. And the sun—gods, the sun—was a tormentor. My skin blistered if I stayed too long in its light, the pain sharp and unrelenting. I kept my secret to myself. No one needed to know.
So, I adapted.
While the others trained in the harsh daylight, I honed my skills under the cover of night. Alone in the darkness, I ran drills until my muscles ached, sparred with shadows until my movements became second nature. If I could not fight like them, I would fight my own way.