By the Bone

1. The Prince's Dream

A blinding pain crashed into the back of Ira's aching thighs, a gruesome red welt beginning to rise. "You can do better than that," the old woman hissed at her, sliding under Ira's halfhearted strike. "You're not paying attention. Stop trying to guess what I'll do and watch where I move. How many times must we do this, girl?" The woman glided like silk across the white tiles with a speed the girl could scarcely dream to match, the weapon spinning seamlessly around the woman's fingers in a taunt.

"You're going too fast," Ira groaned between her teeth and tilted her head back in a childish defeat. She was on the floor before she could utter another word, smashing the back of her already-spinning head against the white tiled floor, her legs swept from underneath her. Static whirlpools danced in her vision as she tried to focus on the ceiling now above her, the warm lights bobbing above blurring together like stars. She rolled to the side as the metallic baton came thundering back down towards her face, cracking a tile in place of her head. "What under Shāyán was that for?" Ira panted, with trembling fingers she felt hot blood trickling down the side of her neck. "You've split my head!" She gasped as she scrambled to unsteady feet and narrowly dodged another blow from the blood-spattered baton, aimed right for her nose. Ira risked a glance across the room to see her own bloodless baton now laying idle and out of reach at the far end of the hall, apparently having been flung some distance as she fell.

"I'm hearing words and not seeing anything of what I've been teaching you." The bitter woman sighed deeply with her shoulders dipped, turning to place the bloodied weapon back on the rack. "Just be thankful you are conscious. Come back after food with a better attitude or I'll recruit your brother in your place."

"You wouldn't do th-,"

"Don't think for a second I wouldn't recruit Ivaan in your place, Ira. You've done nothing for a dozen rises to prove your worth. He trains harder than you, he's younger and faster than you. You're certainly not getting any younger at that... Ivaan at least is in favour of the king. Perhaps he could teach you a thing or two." The woman spat, hateful eyes baring down on Ira.

"I-," the baton came fast, drops of wet gore flying off in all directions, painting the floor and ceiling crimson as it flew directly for Ira's wide eyes. Without a thought, Ira's hand moved to snatch the spinning baton from the air just inches from her face. She had Shāyán indeed to thank for that, she didn't need a broken nose to top the humiliation off.

"That's the only mildly impressive thing you've managed today. Go to the baths and then eat." Just a hint of a smile under her frown peaking through. "We both know you're better than this, Ira." The half-smile dissolved back into a grimace as she turned to leave the large six-sided hall. "And clean up in here before you go the to the baths." She spat over her shoulder, not bothering to glance back at Ira.

With her mother gone, Ira let out a frustrated groan and promptly began pelting the metal baton against the innocent tiles, vividly picturing her brother's face beneath her childish rage.
She was far better than her brother, far stronger and more precise, 6 years more experience than he. He was just skin and bone, all long limbs and bad balance. None of the force and precision she'd so carefully cultivated over her years of training.
Well, these are the things Ira was telling herself as she bludgeoned the floor in any case. In part it was true, her brother was only sixteen and had barely grown into his awkward body, still learning the extent of his own reach. Though to give credit where credit is due, Ivaan is not dimwitted and he has speed in his gangly legs that Ira has not the body for. If he spent a little less time focusing his loving gaze and whispering sweet nothings at his own reflection he might even make a capable Vijeta in years to come, should the need ever arise.

After cracking another tile and feeling a little guilty about it, Ira (rather ungracefully) plopped into a cross-legged sit on the splattered floor and swore violently to no one in particular, beads of sweat and blood trailing her soft cheeks. She closed her eyes with frustration and prayed to Shāyán, their blessed moon, to bring her a blessing.