Page 62 of Devil's Doom

“Splendid!” Draga claps her hands. “I’ll chase you with a stick, then. We’ll have so much fun!”

I stare at her, looking for signs of irony, but the white smile in her dark face seems completely genuine. Her brown eyes sparkle with friendly interest, and the way she moves makes me envious. Her every gesture oozes confidence. She moves like a warrior, someone utterly at home in their body.

My own body feels alien sometimes, ever since Woland brought me back to life. I know I’m myself. I counted all my freckles one day when the anxiety was too much to handle. And yet, I can’t shake the thought he changed something within me. Maybe he took something away—only, I don’t know what.

“Have some water and let’s go,” Draga says. “You need to earn your breakfast.”

I simply stare, feeling weak, grumpy, and out of my depth. I am not a fighter, and I don’t expect any amount of training will make me good at physical combat. But yesterday, I promised myself I’d work hard to grow stronger, and if rising before the chickens is what gets me there, so be it.

Draga laughs when I give her my best attempt at a pale, sleepy smile. “You’ll get used to it. Come on, I’ll go easy on you today. You get to run without a loaded bag.”

I guzzle water and follow her out, rubbing my eyes. As soon as the door closes behind us, Draga reaches for her belt, producing a short, thick stick. She taps it against her palm, and it suddenly grows to the length of her leg. My eyes widen with alarm. She wasn’t joking.

Draga grins, baring all those white teeth with a good-natured laugh. “Run, recruit.”

I launch into an unsteady trot. She taps my ass lightly, and I groan, trying to speed up. For a time, we jog at an easy pace that still makes me winded, especially up the stairs. There are so fucking many, and as my thighs and lungs burn, I curse Woland with every step. He justhad toput his rooms so much deeper than everyone else. Rock bottom, indeed.

As soon as we reach the top, Draga swipes at the backs of my thighs, harder this time.

“All right, you’re warmed up. Sprint to the forge!”

I want to give her an outraged look over my shoulder, but as the stick swishes again, I jerk into a faster run. She is right on my heels, breathing evenly.

“You call that a sprint? My grandma runs faster than you, and her tits swing around her knees! Faster, recruit!”

With that helpful image in mind, I force my body to speed up, even though my mouth fills with a bitter taste, my chest too small to contain the air I need. Draga hits my ass hard the next time I slow down, and I yelp, launching into what feels like the fastest run in my life.

By gods, I haven’t run this fast even from the poroniec.

“Good!” my torturer says cheerfully when we run into the almost empty forge. “Take a minute to catch your breath. Water and towels are there.”

I fall to my hands and knees, wheezing. A black-eyed, black-haired willowy woman who hacks with a sword at a dummy looks at me with a sneer. Even her contempt fails to rouse me.

“All right!” Draga comes back much too soon. “Let’s work on your strength.”

I turn toward the table laden with water pitchers, and she smacks my hip with the stick.

“Ow! Come on, I need a drink!”

She laughs. “You had time to drink, and you wasted it. Let’s go. Pushing yourself without water is an important skill, too.”

As I drag my feet after her, my head pounding, throat burning from thirst, I remind myself why I’m here. I’m done being weak and derided, and Woland, for all his lies, is right: I can do this. I will gain his people’s respect and grow in power.

Draga pushes me through a grueling routine of various exercises. She has me climbing a wall with barely any holds for hands and feet, makes me sit on a stool and stand up so many times, my ass and legs grow numb, and shows me outlandish exercises done on the floor, which I’ve never seen before in my life.

As the forge fills with more and more people, I hear whispers and nasty laughs. They help me ignore my pain and push harder than I imagined possible. My body bursts with pain, shaking uncontrollably, yet I keep conquering it.

One more. Just one more. One more.

By the time the tunnels resound with rooster crows, which Draga says announce sunrise, I am a shaking, sweaty mess. Everything hurts, but I’m ridiculously proud of myself. I did everything my trainer told me and didn’t complain even once.

When Wera comes in, calling me a weak disgrace and a traitor, I laugh under my breath, my mood too perfect to get spoiled.

“Try to get a good night’s sleep,” Draga says, patting my back with enthusiasm. “Tomorrow will be worse, but I can tell you have grit. You’ll do just fine.”

My smile grows fixed when I realize I’ll have to do it all over tomorrow, and every day after that. When the thought proves too daunting, I wave it away and focus on my accomplishment.

I did it. I survived—and earned my breakfast.

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