The girls sparred every day now.
Day after day in the courtyard. They kept moving faster and faster with each round.
And Cadre was slowly catching up to Sonder's pace, losing less and learning more.
It hadn't escaped the general's notice. He watched from the upper balconies, arms crossed, one brow raised, jaw set.
He wouldn't say it out loud, but seeing Cadre improve lit a familiar fire in his chest. Not pride—though that was there too—but need.
He itched to move. To fight.
So, one morning, after the girls had gone inside to rest, the general turned to Vell, who stood nearby, calmly sipping from a delicate glass filled with something pale and vaguely green. Herbal, fragrant—undoubtedly something he'd brewed himself.
It looked like the kind of drink you'd nurse while gossiping politely over garden hedges, not something a man with battlefield scars and old bruises should be holding.
The general turned toward him.
"I need to hit something," he said, without ceremony.
Vell raised an eyebrow. "Punching your feelings again?"
"If I don't, I'll end up punching a wall. Or one of the guards."
"I'd prefer it not be me."
"You've got a chin," the general said, narrowing his eyes slightly. "I've seen it."
"And you're not wrong," Vell replied, lifting his glass, "but you're also not invited to test it."
The general let out a laugh and leaned back against a chair. "We should go somewhere."
Vell glanced up from his cup. "Oh? Where? A walk through the gardens? A quiet library?"
"There's a place in town. A boxing club."
"A what?"
"A boxing club," the general repeated, as if it were common knowledge.
"A club... to box? You mean people gather—on purpose—to hit each other?"
"Exactly."
"That's a strange invention. I'm surprised I haven't heard of it before but I've not had much interest in fighting for the past few decades."
"It's brilliant," the general said. "It's for older men. Like you. Like me. Retired guards, ex-soldiers, a few old smiths who still have arms like stone. They just like the sound of a good punch twice a week until their knees give out."
"You mean it's a collection of relics knocking the dust off each other for sport."
"Correct."
"And you want to go to this place?"
"Not just go," the general said. "I want to fight. I want to feel something crack that isn't my own bones."
Vell set his cup down with exaggerated care. "You want to drag two aging warhorses into a room that smells like sweat, blood, and yesterday's injuries so we can pummel strangers for the sake of nostalgia?"
The general leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes gleaming. "Yes. I want to hit something that can hit me back. Preferably without starting another war."
"Alright then. Let's go."