My breath came in short bursts. Sahora had me running laps. She insisted that I needed to increase my stamina. Running and sparring had become a part of our morning routine before heading out with the group toward Paesuna. I stopped, my hands on my knees. The smell of the morning dew filled my senses.
We had been training for weeks as we made our way to Paesuna.
I knew I could handle a fight. But I also knew I wasn’t Sahora. She wanted me to fight as she does; I never thought that would happen. She moves like she is made to fight.
I was made to heal.
“Oliver, I need you to pay attention.” Sahora’s voice was rough.
I looked at her, her brown hair pulled up in a bun.
She stood in what she called her four-corners stance, legs square with her shoulders, her body loose, as if she were floating. “Copy my stance. I want you to stay like this for as long as you can.” Her stormhound was near her right side, almost guarding her.
I moved into the four corners stance and waited. My legs began to burn after only a few seconds.
Suddenly, Sahora moved toward me. She threw a jab right into my stomach. Even though it hurt, I could tell from the tension in her muscles that she was holding back.
I tried to dodge her next hit.
She kept coming. “Sahora,” I said, trying to stay in my stance and block her.
“Stop.”
She swung again. Landing on my forearm. “Stop me.”
In the corner of my eye, Elyon sat cross-legged, watching us.
“You’re holding back, Oliver. You should really stop letting her set the pace,” they said coolly before turning and walking away.
I stepped outside of her reach, and she came running at me.
She leaped, wrapping her legs around my torso and bringing me down into a hold. Her grip was controlled, a martial drill, not a threat, but she wasn't letting go until I countered.
I tried to lift her arm off of me and couldn’t break her grip. Through the bond, I could tell she was waiting for me to strike her.
“Sahora—” I started.
“Do it, Oliver. I can take a hit,” her voice was certain, and she held her grip.
I didn’t want to; what if I hurt her? If I hurt her, I wouldn't forgive myself.
“Oliver, I swear to any God in this stuck-in-time world that if you don’t try to hit me right now—” I tried to drive my elbow into her stomach, barely grazing her.
She released me and stood.
“Finally, was that so hard?” She nodded as she faced me.
“Yes, I hated every second. Why are you pushing this so hard?” I asked, my breath coming in short bursts.
She met my eyes, steady and clear. “Because if you can fight me, you can fight anything.”
I sank to the ground. “I am not a fighter, Sahora. I am a healer.”
She sat in front of me. “I know that. I just need you to become both.”
“How do I become both when I can’t even keep my mind from drifting into…” My voice faded, and I looked down at my hands.
“Into what?” Sahora asked, her face unreadable. Through the bond, I felt the worry she was trying hard to hide.
I cleared my throat. “While I was out, for those days, I was trapped inside Gyra. I was facing my father every day. Alone.” I shook my head.
“All I can think about is what happened in Gyra.”
“Oliver, we did what we had to do.” Her voice was certain.
“I know, it’s just…he was still my father,” I told her.
Through the bond, I could feel her soften.
She grabbed my hands, then made me look at her. “I know, and that pain will not fade, but you aren’t facing it alone. We face it together.”
I rubbed a thumb along the back of her hand. “Together.”