The forest swallowed them whole—ancient oaks groaning under the weight of centuries, their gnarled branches weaving a canopy so thick it choked out the afternoon sun. Shadows pooled like ink between the trees, and the air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and rotting leaves.
Erin stumbled over a root, his boots sinking into the loam as he glared at the figure ahead of him.
"This is ridiculous!" His voice cracked through the silence, sending a flock of crows scattering from the branches above. "We've been walking for an hour! Where the hell are we even—?!"
Noah, still cocooned in his damn sleeping bag, shuffled forward without breaking stride. The fabric rustled like dry leaves as he moved, his footsteps eerily silent despite the debris underfoot.
"Training starts when we get there," he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.
"When we get where?! We're in the middle of nowhere!" Erin threw his hands up, his breath coming in sharp, angry puffs.
Noah didn't answer. Just kept walking.
When they finally broke into the clearing, the sudden wash of sunlight was blinding. The grass here was unnaturally even, as if something had pressed it flat—or someone had worn it down over years of repetition.
Noah came to a stop, swaying slightly on his feet. Then, without preamble, he face-planted into the dirt, his sleeping bag puffing up around him like a deflated cocoon.
"Five hundred push-ups," his muffled voice drifted up from the ground. "Start now."
Erin stared. "...You're joking."
Noah didn't move.
"You have to be joking!" Erin kicked at the sleeping bag. "I didn't hike all the way out here to do push-ups! You're supposed to teach me how to fight!"
A long, drawn-out snore.
Erin's eye twitched. "Oh, come on—!"
Noah's voice cut through, sudden and sharp: "You wanna learn how to throw a punch?"
Erin froze. "...Yeah?"
"Then do the damn push-ups."
Silence.
Erin gritted his teeth. "This is stupid."
Noah didn't respond.
With a frustrated growl, Erin dropped to the ground, his palms slapping against the dirt. "Fine! Whatever! Five hundred push-ups—easy!"
He started.
One. Two. Three.
By twenty-five, his arms were shaking.
By twenty-six, he collapsed face-first into the grass, his muscles screaming.
Noah's voice, dry as bone: "Count canceled. Start over."
"ARE YOU KIDDING ME—?!"
A snore.
The sun crawled across the sky.
Erin lost count of how many times he tried—twenty push-ups, fifteen, ten. Each attempt ended the same— his body giving out, his breath ragged, his pride in tatters.
"This is pointless!" he snarled after the twentieth failure, rolling onto his back. His arms felt like they'd been filled with lead. "How is this supposed to help me fight?!"
Noah, still facedown in his sleeping bag, didn't move.
"You're not even watching!"
A pause. Then, slowly, Noah lifted his head just enough to peer at Erin through one half-lidded eye.
"You think strength comes from knowing how to throw a punch?" His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of something ancient. "It comes from being able to throw it—again, and again, and again—even when your body begs you to stop."
He dropped back into the dirt.
"Five hundred push-ups. Start over."
Erin wanted to argue. Wanted to scream.
Instead, he dragged himself back onto his trembling arms.
And began again. And again. And again
—Until—
The base was bathed in the bruised hues of twilight, the last embers of sunset smoldering behind the distant mountains. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and simmering herbs, the clatter of cutlery against plates a tired rhythm beneath the murmur of exhausted voices.
Erin collapsed onto the bench beside Lila with a groan that seemed to rattle his bones. His arms trembled as he reached for his mug, fingers barely cooperating.
"I think Noah's trying to kill me," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Five hundred push-ups. Five hundred. And when I couldn't do it? 'Start over.' Like it was nothing!" He slumped forward, forehead thunking against the wooden table. "I can't feel my arms. Or my legs. Or—ow, my back—"
Lila didn't look up from her meal, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Taro made me fight blindfolded," she said, stabbing a piece of meat with unnecessary force. "Said if I could 'steal' his footing without seeing, I'd never lose balance in battle." Her knife screeched against the plate. "I ate dirt. Repeatedly."
Erin lifted his head just enough to squint at her. "So what you're saying is… we're both suffering."
"What I'm saying," Lila corrected, finally meeting his gaze, "is that you whine too much."
Erin scoffed, then winced as his back protested the movement. "Okay, fine. But—ugh—help me stretch my back real quick? I can't reach—"
"No!" The word burst out of Lila like a gunshot, sharp enough that a few heads turned their way. Her cheeks flushed crimson, and she shoved her chair back so hard it nearly toppled. "I mean—no, you idiot! Do it yourself!"**
Erin blinked. "…You good?"
Lila's glare could have melted steel. "Shut up!" And then she was gone, her boots pounding against the floorboards as she all but fled the hall.
Erin stared after her, baffled. "What the hell was that about?"
Across the room, Garrett didn't even notice the commotion. He sat hunched over his untouched meal, his fork absently pushing food around his plate. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by a rare, unguarded intensity.
'Regina.
The memory of her teasing smile, the way her fingers had brushed his when she'd handed him a waterskin—"Better luck tomorrow, hotshot.*—played on loop in his mind.
His grip tightened around his fork.
'I'll show her.
The determination in his eyes burned brighter than the hearth's dying flames.