"The worst part about being underestimated is having to maintain the act."
***
The western training yard felt like stepping into a gladiator's arena where I was scheduled to be the entertainment.
Morning mist clung to the worn stone in wispy tendrils. Curled around the bases of practice dummies and weapon racks like spectral fingers reluctant to release their grip. The familiar scent of oiled leather and cold steel mixed with something else. The sharp tang of suspicion that seemed to follow me everywhere these days.
I hobbled across the courtyard. Each step a carefully choreographed performance of pain.
My left hand pressed against my ribs while my right gripped the rough stone wall for support. Fingertips scraped against centuries-old mortar that crumbled slightly beneath my touch.
The limp wasn't entirely fabricated. Vance's [Power Strike] had left me genuinely battered. The memory of that brutal blow still echoed through my bones with every movement.
