Daughter of the Sword

6 || Outside

THREE MONTHS IN, THE lords stop coming. Bored of watching me flail and sweat, and sick of clashing with Beckett, they leave me to get stronger in peace... which means, as I continue to earn Beckett respect, that I have more freedom.

After starting the morning with fifty laps and three weight circuits, he gives me a water break. I down the jug he offers me, and then another. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, letting out a sigh. Being so removed from society, I've let my manners slide abysmally. Once my prized focus, etiquette barely occurs to me in front of Beckett; dressed in men's clothing, visibly sweating, breaking my composure, I don't see how I could fall lower from my mother's training.

My heart pangs. My mother. I can almost feel the sunlight on my skin as she guides my hand through a stitch in her teahouse, the wind chime tinkling in the breeze as the smell of freshly-baked pastries wafts in with our maid. The porcelain teacups clink against their saucers, and the wooden door, carved with swirls and whorls that form a bed roses, creaks as my mother's friends glide in for another week's rendezvous. My former future.

"Beckett," I begin, then stop myself. I am not to ask anything—some of my mother's etiquette remains, at least.

"Yes?" he asks.

"Pardon me," I say. "It was nothing."

He pauses and looks over at me. "Well, you started, so you might as well finish."

"Can we..." I trail off, my voice meek. I clear my throat. "Can we go outside?"

He almost laughs. "Outside? Why would you ever want to?" He reaches for his water, taking a swig.

I wrap my arms around myself and look at my feet. "It's just... I haven't really been outside my cell, or this room, in three months."

He hesitates, the glass hovering at his mouth. He lowers it.

"It was a foolish question, it's all right," I blurt out. "I apologize for asking." My face, already red from exercise, flames with embarrassment.

He fixes his hard stare on me. Without that scowl, I suppose he would be quite handsome: deep brown eyes, tanned skin, ruffled brown hair that refused to stay in place no matter how neatly he arranges it. He could not be more than a few years older than me. But I blink away those thoughts as he purses his lips in concentration—full lips, I can't help but notice, my eyes drifting to his mouth before snapping back up to his eyes again. I pray he did not take note.

"We have privacy concerns," he begins, and I cannot help my surprise that he did not flatly refuse. "No one knows what you are doing here—but then again, it could do you some good to observe actual soldiers in their training. See what is expected of you."

My heart both sinks and soars.

"You will have to dress for the occasion, and wash." He wrinkles his nose. "You smell worse than the soldiers' barracks."

My body fills with embarrassment, more than is warranted—why should I care what my trainer, who has already seen me live like an animal, think of me? I rein in my blush and merely nod.

He ushers me to the cell block baths, to the freezing water to which I have grown far too accustomed. The first time I dipped into it, I nearly fainted, the temperature so sharp on my skin that tears pricked at my eyes. I still suck in a breath as I slide in and scrub myself, gritting my teeth. If I were Luke, the General would tell me a real soldier does not feel the cold. His words always slid by me, destined only for men.

I finish up and dry off with the rough towel left for me, and a female servant comes in to help me dress. I cannot help but stare at her; she is the first woman I've seen in three months, and I relish in the comfort. She keeps her head down and her mouth shut as she helps me back into my old dress, deftly covering up the torn seam from the last time I undressed myself. My sleeves, which used to fit snugly on my arms, now pinch and strain at the elbows. My corset will not tie as tight. As she guides me to a mirror and I stare at myself, I cannot help but bite back tears. So much like me, and yet so different, so changed. I no longer have the poised, regal posture of the General's daughter. My body does not move with the grace of a lady. Instead of delicate limbs and a fair, rose-pinched face, I see arms of muscle and pale, sickly skin, haggard eyes and a permanent frown.