The next day, I’m once again summoned to the village square in order to teach the men. The tall wall that held Shasta aloft remains as a monolithic reminder of that night, and I have the unfamiliar urge to shiver beneath its shadow. It’s higher than I remember.

I shake my head to disperse the thoughts and turn my eyes back to the men before me.

The sun has just wavered over the horizon, piercing through the darkness and driving us into a new day.

The men spar before me in the courtyard of the barracks. This morning I had them start out with a five laps around the courtyard before diving into mock fights one to one.

The farmers surprised me. They all dove into the warm-up without much grumbling, despite the nippy air that makes fingers prickle. I suppose this is normal to some extent. I saw the knights in the darkness before the dawn, jogging in full gear, their destriers jogging behind them, their breaths fogging the air.

That was when I snuck into the General's room for a little... research. It was good practice, much like warming up the internal muscles of my brain on something not exercised in years.

But those old habits are ingrained to the point of being stuck. Of which there are both good and bad.

His office was surprisingly bare of information, except for a note hidden in a compartment beneath a false drawer floor. It was from David and was quite enlightening. Wrote in shorthand with the third word of each sentence the genuine message from many platitudes and well wishes. The letter was sparse of information for the typical thief, but rich in meaning for one such as I.

Brack,

take advice wolf he's more than appears right will support birthright.

Take care,

D

David knows. It knocked me back; I know so little about the farmer. He's connected dots that few have lived to tell, and that the man knows... it was a sock to the gut. I may have to kill him someday, but I hope it does not come to that. My heart aches in my chest at the thought, and I almost rub it, but realize I'm in front of a mixture of men and women who need a leader who remains stoic.

No more thinking about killing, especially not a man who somehow has my respect despite his manipulations and underhanded tactics.

I watch those gathered before me, seeing the majority of the men working with each other instead of against. The more experienced showing the pups among them how to strike a dummy for greatest effect or how to hold the sword so that it doesn't fly from their hand.

These folks are consistently going against what I’ve learned to be basic human nature in the bigger metropolises. Greed, hunger, laziness—the folks before me are none of those, and it continues to amaze me when I was trained amongst some of the worst kinds of human and Shifter excrement I’ve ever known.

These people are simpler. They rely on each other to survive. They grow up learning to respect the land that feeds them and the animals who give their lives for the meat that graces their tables.

Don’t get me wrong, there are a few rotten apples. Such as the man currently using his stick that masquerades as a bow staff to beat down a boy half his age. I think it’s a sense of pride for him that he can make the boy grunt beneath his blows.

I step in, quite literally, by grabbing the stick before it clobbers the younger man on the head. The thwack of the stick as it smacks into my hand draws the eyes of the men sparring to either side of us. They call out to the others; soon I have an audience, which is going to make this all the harder.

Pride is a hard taskmaster and is never satisfied. This makes it the biggest bane of any warrior. Honestly, it is the biggest bane of anyone aspiring to learn and flourish.

I keep the snarling man before me in the corner of my eye even as I stand before the wincing young man who is perhaps a year my elder.

“Have Healer Morgana check those ribs,” I order in a voice that will not be questioned.

He nods with a wince. Two friends help him to the healer's shack, the two glaring back at the man behind me with flinty eyes.

Bad apples are apparently everywhere, but at least here they are not the norm. Even among the soldiers who grumble about the stretches I've been putting them through, there are few who truly seek to undermine the other humans. They apparently don't yet appreciate the art of stretching before sparring, much to my inner demon's amusement.

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I appraise the man holding the bow staff at an odd angle, like a stick.

“Hit me,” I say, my voice quiet.

He cocks his head, his eyes holding a hint of apprehension. He backs off, then sets his stick at ease on the ground. “No.”

Hmm. A bully then. His kind reminds me of the brokenness of the pups who would do anything to survive, and most often took the qualities of their overheads in order to better suppress those who were less than them and could give them things: mostly food, sometimes favors.

They learned from the ones who beat them how to treat those they could beat.

Instead of compassion, they learned to scorn weaker beings. Instead of love, they learned hate. And then the cycle continued as they grew and beat on their charges and so on and so forth.

Their inability to control their baser desires is what made me the best. I learned to control myself in order to manipulate to a controlled outcome. The others were often discovered, although there were a few who were rising with me in a perverse desire to please their Master. I was different. I only wished to survive for vengeance.

When I escaped, I was a dark creature, yearning only for that revenge. My adopted family helped me see past that into a lighter day, but… now that’s gone, too.

I turn away from the man, marking him as no threat. “Don’t take your anger out on another again,” I say, barely loud enough for him to hear.

A scuff is all the warning I get. It’s the only warning I need.

I duck, rightly assessing he would go for the most vulnerable target. If I were wrong, my own pride would’ve been my downfall since I would’ve ducked straight into the stick; with the way I’m feeling, it would’ve knocked me into next week.

Thankfully, or perhaps not so thankfully, I didn’t misjudge his character.

The stick rushes over my head, slightly teasing my dark hair.

I grin as I turn back around.

That makes his hackles rise. In other words, his pride rankles against my challenge, and his resentment grows.

I duck and dodge, my motions seemingly flawless, almost similar to a dance at one moment, then a harsh jerk the next as I use muscle memory to do simple maneuvers, letting the man get just close enough so he won't give up.

A dark chuckle echoes in my mind as the man yells in rage on the next swing, almost tripping over his own feet as he overcompensates for the near miss as his staff strikes the dirt and rings his arms.

I use this time to loosen up. It’s been a while since I’ve had such open sparring—I just wish it could be against a better opponent.

His movements are jerky and telegraphed well in advance. His eyes never move from the place he will strike, and his clumsy overreach would be his undoing if I wanted to kill him.

Lucky for him, my bloodlust is null against such a helpless pup.

His breathing grows labored. His cheeks puff, making him look more and more like a red-faced bullfrog.

He eventually stumbles over a rock, tumbling to his knees.

His head hangs and he grows still as I stalk around him.

“Do you understand?” I ask in a deceptively calm voice.

“No—I—don’t!” he says through clenched teeth between labored breaths, then calls me a few names I won't repeat.

I ignore the curses he's throwing. “There is always someone better. Pride comes before you fall. Your pride will get you killed on a field where all that matters is survival, and being better than your brother at arms is only to better protect the friends and family at your back. This isn't a field trip. This is battle. This is life or death.”

He stands, and there’s something in his eyes that makes me wary before he shifts his gaze to the ground at my feet. “You’re... right. I’ll do better." He huffs out a breath, eyes boring holes into the ground.

I nod slowly. “Line up! Run drills one through three!”

They disperse, and I stand at the head, making sure they are going through the correct stretches, aware of the upper tier leaders with David gathered near the fountain in front of the officers' quarters.

Many of the men groan going through the stretches that I end with, the main thing I have added to the sparring with the soldiers. Much of the rest I left alone, except for one teeny incident. Some of the younger soldiers were trying to show off for the maids watching near the entrance. It was something that would get them killed or seriously injured in a fight.

Idiots.

Agreed.

"This is dancing, not fighting," the men and women grumble to each other, not aware I hear their whispers.

This comes mostly from the soldiers, but the soldiers are the more experienced group. They are the betas to the farmers' omegas. And since the leaders always do what the underdogs should emulate (right?), the farmers pick up some characteristics from their betas, same as a wolf pack would teach their pups by example. It makes me want to groan when the farmers begin joining the soldiers in their whispers.

Grumbling and complaining take the fight from a man and put it in the hands of his enemy.

But despite myself, I smirk. These stretches are the Hirum Nurisea Farse. They are named after a general of old who fought off twenty thousand with a good mind and five thousand well-trained soldiers taking advantage of the terrain.

It takes one through wind and rain, loosening the core, legs, and arms through a series of movements and static stretches that also encourages balance and strength.

The first four moves encompass seemingly inane movements to the untrained eye. But to the one who knows, they are composed of a leg sweep, two punch redirects that seem like the movements of a windmill, and end with a flowing strike to the nose that can kill—if used correctly.

Perhaps if they knew, it wouldn't be such a chore, but I haven’t told the folks yet—perhaps I will if they ask. For now, I want them to learn to control their bodies. These stretches flow in a pattern that challenges both mental control and physical prowess. You can be as strong as an ox and six feet tall, as some of these men are, and be beat by a hundred pound woman soaking wet who has finesse. Trust me... I've seen it.

The poor farmers have the physical strength but none of the guile and mental flexibility they will need on a field of battle.

The soldiers have the weapons and the armor without the humility of an apprentice and practically none of the physical flexibility.

The farmers, who were fine to follow these stretches yesterday, are now picking up from the soldiers that this is abnormal and is something to be questioned and not followed to the full extent required.

I need a lot longer than a week.

With a sigh, I correct one man’s form and show another the form again when he stumbles about in the wrong order, not at all concerned about learning the correct motions of the first four moves.

I need a lot longer than a week.