Ethan groaned as he picked himself up from the floor, a line of sweat trickling down his temple. His ribs ached where the wooden blade had struck him, and his pride ached just a bit more.
He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, giving Eleanor a pointed, exasperated look.
"Miss Eleanor," he grumbled, voice tinged with disbelief. "You're using way too much strength. How are we even supposed to deal with you like this?"
And really, who could blame him?
The pressure she exerted, the speed, the reaction time, the sheer suffocating presence—everything felt several leagues beyond what any normal training instructor should be able to unleash on academy students.
It wasn't an exaggeration.
It was Eleanor.
