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As I enter the training room people stare and whisper at each other. They linger around the obstacles laid out around the room, not really doing any proper work. They are watching me, waiting to see what I will do next. I am not unused to people watching my every year from nine years on the field. I was never the best on the field, but once upon a time I achieved top marks in hand to hand combat, self defense and won the most creative strategies/ideas award. That was when I was just a skimpy little seven year old, no taller then a fully grown deer. I was skinny, too, because I had been my first year. My best year.

The training room seems to be its usual self, with its familiar smell and shape, but of course they have laid out new courses for this month. I've always been top of the class when it came to fencing, and I'm handy with a knife, but I am unfit and out of practice. It's certainly a change from lying in bed all day getting other people to bring you tea and biscuits. But I've always loved training, and I feel right at home as I pick up an unfamiliar pocket gun. I slowly pull the trigger, aiming for the target, and hope for the best. As the bullet hits the target three targets down from the one in front of me, it dawns on me that I won't actually be going on the field for a good three months. I now understand why they let me out so much earlier then I could of imagined, by the time I am fit and willing to complete my task it will be mid November. Time is running out, and I it's only a matter of days until the men murder someone else.

And suddenly, I feel like a seven year old again.