Grace collapsed onto the training field in a sweaty heap. Her muscles burned. Her lungs burned. Her freaking eyeballs burned.
"Is... is that good enough?" she wheezed.
Seraph loomed over her, arms crossed, expression completely unimpressed.
"You call that training? My grandmother hits harder than you, and she's been dead for three centuries!"
"That's not fair!" Grace protested. "Your grandmother was probably some legendary warrior who killed demons with her pinky finger!"
"She was a baker."
"Oh."
"GET UUUP! FIFTY MORE REPS!"
Grace groaned and forced her trembling body upright. It had been a month since the Oakridge mission. A whole month of Seraph's relentless training regime. No demon-slaying, just endless sword drills, flight practice, and whatever sadistic exercise Seraph dreamed up each morning.
She raised her practice sword for what felt like the millionth time that day.
