Azrael did not start gently.

  Ethan learned that within the first minute.

  “Stop.”

  He froze mid-step, weight already committed forward, knife half-raised.

  “That,” Azrael said sharply, hovering at eye level, “was three mistakes stacked on top of each other.”

  Ethan lowered the blade slowly. “I didn’t even swing.”

  “That was the fourth,” she snapped.

  She drifted in a tight circle around him, eyes tracking his shoulders, his hips, the angle of his wrist like she was measuring flaws rather than flesh.

  “You lead with your intent,” she said. “Your body follows too late. Any competent opponent would read you before you crossed half the distance.”

  “I don’t usually fight competent opponents,” Ethan said.

  “That,” Azrael replied without missing a beat, “is not a strategy. That is luck with an expiration date.”

  He exhaled through his nose and reset his stance.

  They were in one of the wider chambers now—cleared deliberately weeks ago. Smooth stone underfoot, low ceiling, torchlight pulled back enough to leave shadows but not blind spots. Goblins lingered at the edges, some pretending very badly not to watch.

  Maurik leaned against a wall, arms folded, eyes intent. Krill sat cross-legged with a bone needle and thread, repairing a tear in a tunic while listening anyway.

  Azrael noticed them immediately.

  “…Why are they here?” she demanded.

  Ethan shifted his grip. “Because they live here.”

  “That is not an answer.”

  “They learn by watching,” he said. “So do I.”

  She looked at the goblins again, clearly reassessing something she didn’t like.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “…How long,” she asked sharply, “have you been among them?”

  “About five months,” Ethan said.

  Her head snapped back to him. “Five months?”

  “Yes.”

  “With this level of instruction?” she gestured sharply at his stance.

  “I didn’t have you,” he replied flatly.

  That earned a pause.

  Not approval.

  But recalibration.

  “…How many?” she asked.

  “In the tunnels?” Ethan adjusted his footing the way she’d shown him. “Twenty-four. That includes the children.”

  Her jaw tightened. “That is not a war band.”

  “No,” Ethan said. “It’s a community.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then waved a hand sharply.

  “Again.”

  They drilled footwork.

  Not forms.

  Not sequences.

  Weight transfer.

  Distance.

  How much space mattered when blades were short and armor was absent.

  Azrael was relentless.

  “Too wide.”

  “Too slow.”

  “Your center is exposed.”

  “Stop thinking about killing. Think about not dying first.”

  Ethan didn’t argue.

  That, more than anything, seemed to irritate her.

  Midway through the session, as he reset after another correction, she cut in again.

  “How far,” she asked abruptly, “are the nearest settlements?”

  Ethan paused, annoyance flickering before he could stop it. “A day to the road. Three more to a village that matters.”

  “Mounted?”

  “Either.”

  She hummed once, sharp and thoughtful, then snapped, “Focus.”

  He did.

  They worked until his legs burned—not with the clean ache of strength training, but with the deep, irritated soreness of unlearning bad habits.

  At one point, Azrael physically shoved his shoulder out of alignment—more a firm pressure than force.

  “That is where you think you’re balanced,” she said. “And that is where you die.”

  He corrected.

  Again.

  And again.

  Between drills, goblins moved naturally around them—passing water, checking torches, murmuring among themselves. No reverence. No fear. Just acceptance.

  Azrael watched this too.

  “…They trust you,” she said quietly, almost against her will.

  Ethan wiped sweat from his brow. “They know what I’ll do. And what I won’t.”

  “That is not common,” she said.

  “Neither am I.”

  She scoffed. “You keep saying that as if it excuses incompetence.”

  “It explains why I’m still alive.”

  That, finally, earned the faintest huff of reluctant amusement.

  By the end of the session, Ethan was shaking—not from fear, not from exhaustion alone, but from how much attention it took to do things right.

  Azrael floated in front of him, arms crossed.

  “You are inefficient,” she said. “Undertrained. You rely on misdirection and desperation.”

  “Yet,” Ethan said evenly, “you’re still teaching me.”

  She hesitated.

  “…Because,” she said stiffly, “you listen.”

  He nodded once.

  She looked away. “And because if you die, I am stuck here.”

  “Motivation comes in many forms,” Ethan said.

  She glared at him, then sighed sharply.

  “This is your first lesson,” she said. “You will not win by overpowering anyone. Ever. You must end fights before they become fights.”

  “That,” Ethan replied, “I’m good at.”

  “We will see.”

  She drifted upward, gaze lingering on the goblins once more before returning to him.

  “And tomorrow,” she added, voice edged with warning, “you will show me what else you are hiding.”

  Ethan met her eyes.

  “Fair,” he said.

  Around them, the goblins resumed their routines as if nothing unusual had happened.

  Which, Ethan realized, was exactly what progress looked like.