The following morning, Astarotte stood in the training ring once more, bruised but not broken.
Today's focus was evasion and burst movement. Oberyn took the lead, setting up a barrage of controlled thrusts and slashes designed to force her to move quickly—no time to think.
"Let your instincts flow, not panic. Feel the movement of the wind and follow it," he instructed, silver eyes narrowing.
Astarotte ducked under a horizontal slash, rolled to the side, and launched herself forward with a burst of demonic energy. Her tail lashed out mid-air, smacking the practice dummy Oberyn had just conjured.
"Nice hit!" he grinned. "Getting cocky, are we?"
"Maybe a little!" she shouted, panting, exhilarated.
Later, Serenil stepped in with more finesse-focused drills. He conjured three illusory clones of himself, each programmed to use one of her known weaknesses against her.
"Adapt. That's your lesson today."
At first, she struggled—hesitating, second-guessing herself. But as the day wore on, her vision sharpened. Her tail movements became coordinated. Her eyes tracked feints. By the third hour, she destroyed all three illusions with a clean flurry of strikes.
She collapsed afterward, but Serenil stood over her and simply said:
"You're improving."
Oberyn offered her a canteen and a proud smile. "You've got more guts than most soldiers I've trained. You'll make a damn fine warrior."
Astarotte looked up at both of them, beaming despite the pain. "Thank you... both of you... I swear, I won't stop until I can fight at your side."
Serenil gave the barest hint of a smile.
Oberyn clapped her on the shoulder. "Then get up, little flame. Tomorrow, we go again."