Bloodlines and Bullets

thirteen

The morning sun casts long shadows across the courtyard as I stand in front of the training dummies, gripping the knives tightly in my hands. The once unfamiliar weight of the blades now feels like an extension of my own body. The steel is cold against my skin, but there's a strange comfort in it, a reassurance that I've come to depend on. These weapons, tools of destruction and survival, are the very things that now tether me to this world. A world I'm determined to escape, no matter the cost.

I square my shoulders, rolling them back to ease the tension that knots in my muscles. The cool breeze brushes against my skin, carrying with it the scent of the earth, of sweat, and the distant tang of metal. The sun is still low, its golden rays slicing through the crisp air and painting the training grounds in hues of amber. I focus my gaze on the target before me, a lifeless dummy that might as well be a ghost from my past.

Taking a deep breath, I centre myself, drawing on every ounce of training that's been beaten into me over the last few weeks. My pulse quickens, the familiar thrill of adrenaline seeping into my veins. It's a feeling I've come to crave, as much as I despise the circumstances that have forced it upon me.

I move, swift and deliberate, the knives flashing in the morning light as I execute a series of precise thrusts and slashes. The blades cut through the air with a deadly grace, slicing through the fabric of reality, and I lose myself in the rhythm of the exercise. Each strike is a whisper of defiance, a promise to myself that I will survive this, that I will find a way out.

But it's not just survival that drives me. With every thrust, every calculated move, the image of him flares in my mind - Luciano, with his cold, distant eyes and that damned air of untouchable authority.

His face, carved from the stone of my nightmares, morphs into the face of the training dummy before me. I picture him standing there, impassive, as if nothing in this world could touch him. The thought makes my blood boil. With each strike, I imagine myself striking back at him, the one who holds the chains of my captivity.

The knives become my voice, a silent scream of rage and desperation. I slash, parry, and stab, my movements growing more aggressive, more determined. The world narrows to the point of the blade, and all I can think about is the moment when I'll finally be free.

A voice cuts through the haze of my thoughts, dragging me back to reality.

"Good form, Thalia. Keep that focus," John's voice rings out, steady and calm, a sharp contrast to the storm brewing inside me.

I pause, my chest heaving with exertion. Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I welcome the burn. I nod in acknowledgment, forcing my expression to remain neutral, hiding the turmoil churning beneath the surface. His words are a balm to the part of me that still craves validation, that still seeks proof of my own competence.

But as I stand there, trying to catch my breath, the anger simmers just below the surface, coiled like a serpent ready to strike. I need to get out of here. I need to feel the sun on my face without the weight of a thousand eyes watching my every move.

When the morning session ends, I walk quickly back to my room, each step filled with purpose. The warm water washes away the sweat and the grime, but not the unease that clings to my skin like a second layer. My thoughts are distant during lunch, the conversation with my friends - about the sad fact that there hasn't been any Tiramisu since that one time - barely registering.

Back in my room, exhaustion pulls me under like a riptide, and I surrender to sleep almost immediately. But when I awake to the blaring sound of my alarm, panic grips me. My heart lurches as I realize the alarm has been ringing for a while, and I'm already late for the afternoon session.