Chapter 28: Blood and Bruises
{IRIS}
Morning training with Lord Val was... tolerable.
Fine. It was decent.
—if I ignored the fact that he forced me to memorize a thousand different ways to hold a blade before I was even permitted to swing one.
"Footwork first," he instructed, his voice blank as his face. "A warrior who cannot stand properly shall perish before she has the chance to strike."
He spoke as if reciting scripture.
He stood beside me, hands clasped behind his back, posture straight and regal—like a portrait sprung to life.
Meanwhile, I stood wobbling on the forest floor like a newborn deer. For every slight misstep, every tiny misalignment of my heel, he raised a brow and simply said:
"Again."
He sipped his blood tea with the serenity of a god while my legs trembled beneath the weight of his standards.
By the fifth attempt, my thighs burned and my vision blurred. I was certain my soul was leaving my body through sweat.
Still, he remained patient... maddeningly so.
Lord Val was, without question, a perfectionist. The kind who would straighten the battlefield before fighting upon it.
And then came hell.
Afternoon training with Sebastian was no refined academy.
It was a battlefield—and I was the sacrificial offering.
If Lord Val’s teaching was patience and perfect, Sebastian’s method was the physical manifestation of violence.
At least today, he claimed he would teach me the basics. He started with how to block, how to punch, and how to dodge.
He even corrected my form without punching me in the face, which felt dangerously close to kindness.
It lasted ten minutes.
Then Sebastian, dear merciless Sebastian, seemed to recall that he was a centuries-old vampire forged from steel and shadow—and I was a werewolf who broke if the wind blew too hard.
WHAM.
My world flipped. My body sailed through the air, my arms flailing uselessly as I flew backward.
I met the earth with a sound that surely echoed into the next dimension.
I lay there, staring up at the sky, stars dancing mockingly in my vision.
"I thought," I croaked, "we were doing... basics."
Sebastian had the audacity to shrug. "I did warn you to block."
LIES.
ABSOLUTE LIES.
And so the torment continued.
Some days were tolerable; others ended with me face-first in the dirt, contemplating my life choices. Good thing I healed fast. Bad thing? Pain still existed.
By the fourth day, I made a startling discovery:
Sebastian hated me.
Truly. Deeply. Passionately.
No one could "accidentally" punch someone that hard that many times. No one "forgot" to hold back this often.
Whenever I glared at him, he merely arched a brow—bored, as if I were the unreasonable one.
This was personal.
And so, one afternoon, I decided to test my theory.
"Sebastian," I said, stretching my bruised limbs with all the grace of a dying spider. "Are you, perhaps . . . trying to kill me?"
He had the nerve to look mildly offended. "If I intended to kill you, Lady Iris, you would already be dead."
I stared at him. "That is the least comforting thing anyone has ever said to me."
He rolled his eyes—rolled his eyes at me. "Stop whining. You heal quickly enough."
I gasped. "So you are hitting me on purpose!"
His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough to be a threat.
Oh, I was going to fight this old man.
My attempt at revenge ended, regrettably, with me flying again.
"Better," he said, observing my limp body on the ground. "But try not to get hit next time."
"Oh, brilliant advice," I wheezed. "Why did I not think of that?"
By week’s end, my body felt like a mosaic of fresh and fading bruises. My arms, my legs, even places I didn’t know could bruise... bruised.
I had developed a new survival instinct: always assume a punch was coming.
The good news? I was getting faster at dodging.
The bad news? Sebastian saw this as an invitation to level up my training.
Still, I refused to break.
I had survived years of bullying in my pack.
I had survived being hunted by monsters in the night.
I had survived the first week of Sebastian’s brutality.
Surely I could survive him.
...Probably.
One afternoon, I found myself soaring toward a tree again—nothing new. Pain curled through my ribs as I slumped to the ground, wheezing. A metallic tang coated my tongue; I spat blood into the grass.
Sebastian did not hold back. Not once. Not for even a heartbeat.
My vision swayed. I blinked hard, expecting another blow. But then...
Silence.
I lifted my head slowly, expecting him to lunge, but instead...
He was frozen.
Perfectly still.
His gaze lifted toward the darkening sky, his brows furrowed, his jaw taut.
Concern.
Actual concern.
I frowned. Was this a trick? Psychological warfare? Was he about to strike the moment I let my guard down?
Before I could complete the thought, he seized my wrist hard enough to make me yelp.
"Wh—Sebastian? What are you—"
The world vanished.
The forest, the clearing, the trembling leaves—gone.
Instead, suffocating blackness swallowed everything.
I felt cold stone press against my back. The damp air reeked of rot and old blood. Iron bars rose before me, tall and rusted.
A dungeon.
My night vision flickered to life, allowing me to see what the shadows concealed—mildew-soaked walls, water dripping from the ceiling, pools of stagnant darkness forming on the floor.
"What is happening?" I demanded, spinning toward him.
Sebastian did not answer. He stepped outside the cell with calm, measured steps.
CLANG.
The iron door slammed shut. The lock slid into place with a sound that chilled my bones.
I lunged forward, fingers curling around the cold bars. "Sebastian!? Why did you lock me in here?"
His face was unreadable, carved from ice. "Remain here, Lady Iris. I will return for you later."
"What—later?! Sebastian, what is going on?"
He said nothing.
The torchlight flickered once, casting shadows across his face.
Then—
He vanished.
Swallowed by darkness.
Leaving me alone.
Imprisoned.
And trembling in a cell that felt far too prepared... as if made for something far more dangerous than me.
