It was a strange thing, strength.
Not loud. Not flashy. Sometimes it arrived quietly, like realizing you no longer flinched when a door slammed, or that your hands didn't shake when someone raised their voice. Sometimes it showed up disguised as calm.
The eastern training yard smelled faintly of scorched stone and damp earth, the sort of scent that clung to your clothes and hair long after you'd left. Verona stood near the center of it, boots planted, sleeves rolled up, breath coming a little fast.
A week ago, she would've collapsed by now.
Today, she didn't.
"Again," Ardine said, arms folded, tone flat as a dull blade. No encouragement. No softness. That was just how she spoke, like praise was something you earned with blood, sweat, and maybe a small miracle.
Verona closed her eyes.
