It was hard to say why, but I was irritated. Not at the God of Iron. He had only told me the truth. What bothered me was realizing that every part of this mess, every bit of guilt worth feeling, rested on me alone. He had watched, yes, but that was not the issue. He was a god. Of course he had seen everything. The problem was that I could not hide from the fact that the responsibility for what happened was mine.

  I looked at him and asked, “So, is that all I am here for. For you to tell me how I did?”

  He smiled at me. It was perfect in a way that made it look like his teeth were carved from marble slabs, polished to a shine that caught the warm light of the hall. The kind of smile sculptors tried to capture in stone temples, except this one breathed. It almost made me want to laugh, but the weight of the moment before sat heavy on my ribs. The understanding that I had nearly killed a child, even if I had needed to, even if the alternative was worse, pressed down with a slow and steady ache.

  The God of Iron said, “No. I just thought you would want to know the truth. And also, the muck monkey fight. I had nothing to do with that. It was hilarious. It was one of the funniest things I have ever watched in my entire life. And my life has been very long, so that is saying something.”

  The God of Iron chuckled, shaking his head. “One more thing. Why did you yell ‘I cast shield’ when you dove in front of the girl. You were not invoking anything. You yelled it like it was a spell.”

  Heat crept up my neck. “Greta said I held my breath wrong when I fought Squishy. Shouting something helped the movement feel right. And yelling random sounds felt wrong, so… I yelled it like it was a spell. Like how I used to cast.”

  He nodded, completely unsurprised. “So, it was instinct. Something your body remembers even if your magic is gone.”

  “Yes,” I said quietly. “It made me feel like me again. Even if it did nothing more than help me steady myself.”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “Good. Identity strengthens intent. Intent strengthens movement. Keep doing what helps you move with purpose.”

  He lifted one hand in a casual sweep toward the expanse of the Heaven of Iron. The space shimmered at the gesture, as if the hall acknowledged his words. “Let’s get down to business. The real reason I brought you here is to teach you how to work out.”

  I looked at him askance. “What do you mean.”

  “This,” he said, gesturing around the grand hall with its infinite racks and silent angels, “is training. You need a trainer. And who better to help you build the body of a god than the God of Iron.”

  He flexed, just enough to make the air ripple. I stared at him, unsure whether the distortion in the air was heat, pressure, or pure intimidation. Probably all three.

  “Do not worry,” he said. “This is more about form and function. Technique. Efficiency. And we have time to beat into you the proper methods. The ones they do not teach you in that little training course. The ones you should have learned from my book.”

  He paused as if remembering something mildly disappointing. “Which you have not read. Obviously.”

  I opened my mouth to object, then closed it. He was absolutely right.

  His smile returned, smaller and more knowing. “But also, while we do this, it will give you the repetitions you need. Ingraining it into your mind in this moment between life and death. This moment can last an eternity or no time at all. So let us make use of it. Let us begin shaping what you will need to create a body of iron.”

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  He clapped his hands together once. The sound echoed like a hammer striking an entire battlefield of anvils. The angels paused mid-lift. Even the bulls straightened, thick necks rolling as they turned their heads to watch.

  “Lesson one,” he said, “a strong body begins with simple things done perfectly. Anyone can do a pushup. Almost no one can do it correctly.”

  I blinked. “I am three.”

  “Yes,” he said. “And your point is.”

  Before I could answer, the floor beneath me reshaped itself, gently sloping upward, guiding me into a push up. His power pressed lightly on my back, settling my shoulders, aligning my spine. My heels adjusted on their own. My hands opened and set themselves under my shoulders with eerie precision.

  “This is your baseline,” he said. “A perfect position for a perfect movement. Strength begins with control. We will start with pushups.”

  I lowered myself. Or tried to. The position demanded exactness I did not yet have. My elbows tucked in, my back stayed flat, my hips did not sag or rise. My body trembled as if every muscle were being individually inspected and found wanting.

  He nodded once. “Good. That is one.”

  “That was not one,” I said, fighting to hold myself up. “I barely moved.”

  “It was,” he replied. “It was perfect. I do not count anything else. You will not chase numbers here. You will chase precision. We will go beyond numbers later.”

  I struggled through the next one. And the next. And the next. My arms burned. My back felt like a rope pulled taut by invisible hands. My breathing turned rough and uneven. Every time my form wavered, the world corrected me. His power nudged my elbows back into place, straightened my spine, forced my hands to stay where they belonged. There was no room for cheating.

  Time did something strange. It did not crawl or race, it simply stopped meaning anything. There was only the feeling of my hands against the floor, the tight line of my body, the fire in my shoulders.

  “Again,” he said.

  I obeyed. Again and again, I rose and fell, and even when my body failed, it would reset itself to full strength. The only thing that remained was the memory of the effort, carved into me like a lesson I could not escape.

  Eventually, he spoke, voice calm as ever. “This is the correct form for a push up. Remember it. When you return to your body, the world will not correct it for you. You will have to correct it yourself.”

  The floor shifted beneath my feet, lifting my hips and guiding me upright. My stance widened. My knees bent. My chest lifted.

  “Lesson two,” he said. “Squats. Children are naturally flexible, but flexibility without strength is a river with no banks. It moves, but has no direction. We will give you direction.”

  I descended. Slowly. Painfully. The pressure increased the lower I went, not crushing, but still there was pressure. If my knees drifted inward, an invisible force nudged them back out. If my heels threatened to rise, the floor tilted to press them down again and again.

  My thighs screamed. My calves burned. My ankles argued with existence. Then once again my body reset.

  “Leg day sucks at first,” the God of Iron said conversationally. “It continues to suck forever. Legs are your foundation. Your core is the center, but your legs are what let you move that center wherever you wish. We do not skip leg day.”

  “You will thank me when you are not crushed under the weight of your own ambitions.” he said.

  “Again,” he commanded. “Again. Again.”

  Time blurred. Or maybe it shattered into repetitions. Down. Up. Hold. Down. Up. Hold. Sweat rolled down my face, stinging my eyes. Or maybe it was not sweat. Maybe it was the strange, warm mist that drifted through the Heaven of Iron, condensing on skin that was and was not mine.

  The angels resumed their training. The rhythmic clanging of metal matched the pulse in my ears. The bulls watched with mild interest, shifting occasionally like bored spectators who enjoyed the show but were saving their real enthusiasm for the moment I finally collapsed.

  “Stand,” he commanded.

  I stood.

  “Hold.”

  I held.

  My legs shook. My arms tingled. My lungs burned. The floor felt like it might tilt at any moment, but it did not. It waited to see if I would break first.

  He snapped his fingers.

  A banana materialized in his hand, glowing faintly like it had been peeled from the sun.

  “This,” he said, “is a regular banana, not holy, not divine, just a regular banana. You will eat one every day. Three meals and one banana. This is nonnegotiable.”

  I blinked at him, wiping moisture from my forehead with the back of my hand. “are you kidding?”

  “It is the rule,” he said.

  He tossed the banana to me. I caught it clumsily.

  “Eat.”

  I took a bite. My eyes widened. The flavor exploded like honey and lightning and fresh air all at once, heat tracing through my veins in a bright rush. This was truly the food of the gods. I would gladly eat this banana every day until eternity ended.

  “Oh god,” I moaned.

  “Yes,” he said. “Me.”