Chapter 24 Little Strength
Maddie Pov
My feet were better. Not perfect. Still sore. Still tender. But I could walk now. Slowly. Carefully. The nurse had finally released me from the infirmary with strict instructions to take it easy.
Take it easy. Right. Because that's what I needed. More time being weak. More time being vulnerable. More time being a target.
No. I was done with that. Done being the girl who got hurt. Done being the victim. Done being weak.
"Where are we going?" I asked Elara. She was practically dragging me across campus. It was late. Past curfew. Dark. Cold.
"You'll see," Elara said. She had this look on her face. Determined. Excited. "Trust me."
We went around the back of the gym. To a side door most people didn't know about. Elara pulled out a key. Unlocked it. Gestured for me to go in.
"How do you have a key?" I asked.
"I have my ways," Elara said. Grinning. "Come on."
Inside was dark. Empty. The gym at night felt different. Bigger. More open. Our footsteps echoed.
Elara led me to the back. To the training area. Where they kept the punching bags. The mats. The equipment. She flicked on a small light. Just enough to see by. Not enough to attract attention.
"What are we doing here?" I asked.
"Training," Elara said simply. She walked over to one of the bags. Patted it. "You said you wanted to stop being weak. So let's fix that."
"I just got out of the infirmary," I said. "I'm supposed to be resting."
"Your feet are healing," Elara said. "You don't need your feet to throw a punch. Come here."
I walked over. Slowly. My feet did hurt but not too bad. Manageable. Elara stood in front of the bag. Got into a stance.
"Watch," she said. "Feet shoulder width apart. Knees slightly bent. Hands up protecting your face."
She demonstrated. Looked natural. Comfortable. Like she'd done this a million times.
"Now the punch," Elara said. "It's not about arm strength. It's about your whole body. You twist your hips. Snap the wrist. Drive through the target."
She punched the bag. Hard. It swung back. Made a satisfying thud. She made it look easy.
"Your turn," Elara said. Stepping aside. "Try it."
I moved in front of the bag. Tried to copy her stance. Feet apart. Knees bent. Hands up. Felt awkward. Wrong.
"Relax," Elara said. "You're too tense. Loosen up."
I tried to relax. Took a breath. Focused on the bag. Then I punched. My fist connected. The bag barely moved. My hand hurt.
"Ow," I said. Shaking my hand out.
"You're not twisting your hips," Elara said. "And you're not following through. Watch again."
She demonstrated. Slow this time. Breaking it down. "Plant your back foot. Rotate your hips. Extend your arm. Snap the wrist at the end. All one motion."
I tried again. Planted. Rotated. Extended. Snapped. This time the bag moved more. Not much. But more.
"Better," Elara said. "Again."
I punched again. Then again. Then again. Each time trying to get it right. Trying to feel the power. Trying to make the bag really swing.
"You're thinking too much," Elara said. "Stop thinking. Just feel it. Let your body do what it knows how to do."
I stopped. Took another breath. Stared at the bag. Thought about everything. About my parents. About Jace. About the wolfsbane. About Simone. About being called weak. About being helpless.
Then I punched. Hard. Put everything into it. All my anger. All my pain. All my frustration.
The bag swung back. Actually swung. First time. First real hit.
"Yes!" Elara shouted. "That's it! Do it again!"
I punched again. Harder. The bag swung. My knuckles hurt but I didn't care. Felt good. Felt right. Felt powerful.
Again. Again. Again. Each punch felt better than the last. Each hit released something inside me. Something that had been building for weeks. Months. Years.
"Good," Elara said. She was smiling. Proud. "Now let's work on form. You're dropping your guard after each punch. That's dangerous. Someone could counter."
She showed me how to keep my hands up. How to protect my face while punching. How to move. How to not be a stationary target.
We trained for an hour. Maybe more. Lost track of time. Just kept going. Kept practicing. Kept improving.
My body was sore. My hands were raw. My feet were aching. But I felt good. Felt strong. Felt capable.
Finally Elara called it. "That's enough for tonight. You did great. Really great."
"Thanks," I said. I was breathing hard. Sweating. But smiling. Actually smiling. "This felt amazing."
"Good," Elara said. "We'll do it again tomorrow night. And the night after. Until you can really fight. Until nobody can hurt you again."
I looked at the punching bag. At the dent where I'd been hitting it. At the proof that I was getting stronger.
"I won't be weak anymore," I said. The words came out fierce. Determined. "I won't let anyone push me around. I won't be a victim."
"You were never a victim," Elara said. "You were surviving. But now you're going to thrive."
I liked that. Thrive. Not just survive. Actually live. Actually fight. Actually be strong.
"Thank you," I said. Looking at Elara. "For this. For believing in me. For helping me."
"That's what friends do," Elara said. She bumped my shoulder with hers. "We make each other stronger."
We cleaned up. Turned off the light. Locked the door behind us. Snuck back across campus like criminals. Like rebels. Like people who refused to follow the rules.
Back at my dorm I collapsed on my bed. Every muscle hurt. Every bone ached. But it was good pain. Earned pain. Strong pain.
Gory stirred in my head. "You did well tonight."
"Thanks," I said. "It felt good to hit something."
"You're going to need it," Gory said. "Things are going to get worse before they get better."
"I know," I said. "But at least now I'll be ready. At least now I can fight back."
"Good," Gory said. "Because they're coming for us. Whoever killed our parents. Whoever put wolfsbane in our shoes. They won't stop. Won't give up. Won't leave us alone."
"Then we'll fight them," I said. "We'll train. We'll get stronger. We'll be ready."