Chapter 90 Fire in my blood
IRIS
“Again.”
I don’t even get a second to breathe before Grandfather lunges.
I swing.
He ducks.
I spin.
He sidesteps, hands behind his back like this is a walk in the freaking park.
“Faster, Iris!” he barks, circling me like a wolf sizing up prey. “Your enemy won’t wait for your legs to recover. Move!”
I grit my teeth and rush him again, fists flying. One jab, two jabs and a sweep of my leg.
He jumps it effortlessly and barely a grunt leaves him.
“What the helly?” I mutter, already panting.
He’s seventy. Seventy-something. I’ve seen trees older than this man, how is he moving like this?
“You’re thinking too much,” he calls out, spinning behind me before I even register that he moved. “Less brain, more instinct.”
I whirl and swipe at him again. He catches my wrist mid-air. “Telegraphing your hits again,” he says, voice annoyingly calm.
I yank free, take three steps back, sweat rolling down my spine. My hair is sticking to the sides of my face, my hoodie clinging like second skin. We’ve been at it for an hour and I’ve barely grazed him.
“Are you secretly on steroids or something?” I puff.
He smiles. “No. Just not as retired as you thought.”
“Great,” I huff, rolling my shoulders. “Love that for me.”
He gestures. “Come on. Again.”
This time, I don’t charge. I breathe. Watch. His stance is relaxed, too relaxed. I fake a punch to his left and pivot to the right, aiming for his ribs…
He catches my elbow mid-swing and shoves me off balance.
I fall hard, my elbow scratching against the grass.
Ow.
“Good,” he says. “Much better. But you’re still rushing. Control your center. Keep your hips under you.”
I groan and flop onto my back. “I’m dying.”
“You’re improving.”
“Tell that to my spine.”
He chuckles and offers me a hand. I take it, and he pulls me up with one swift motion like I weigh nothing. My arms are jelly. My lungs are on fire. But beneath it all… I feel a tiny buzz. A strange sort of pride.
Because I’m not the same girl who flinched during her first training. I’m not breaking down anymore, I’m breaking through instead.
“You’ve come far,” Grandfather says, voice softer now. “Your stance is cleaner. Your energy is more focused, and you’re stronger now, Iris.”
I nod, wiping sweat from my forehead. “Still can’t shift though.”
“It’ll come. When you stop worrying about it, it’ll happen.”
I sigh and glance at the tree line. It’s quiet today. Too quiet.
“How do you do it?” I ask suddenly. “Move like that. At your age.”
He raises an eyebrow. “At my age?”
I wince. “You know what I mean.”
“I’ve spent years staying sharp,” he replies. “War doesn’t care about age. It comes for you, young or old. You either stay ready or you die.”
The words hit like a slap. Harsh, yet honest.
“Cool,” I mutter. “Just your average family bonding time over near-death lessons.”
He grins. “You needed this. You still do.”
“Yeah, I know.” I look down at my scraped knuckles. “It’s just… hard.”
“You think Darian didn’t train like this? Bleed like this? You think he was born strong?” Grandfather steps closer. “He worked for it. Every bruise, every scar, it all built him. Same as it’s building you.”
My chest tightens at the mention of his name. Darian. It’s been too long. Too quiet.
“You’ve got fire, Iris,” he continues. “But fire needs control, or it burns everything down.”
I nod slowly.
Then I glance back at him. “Again?”
His eyes gleam. “I thought you’d never ask.”
I swing first this time, sharp and quick. He blocks, but just barely.
He chuckles. “Good.”
I kick. He dodges.
“Faster!”
I twist, using my momentum, spin, fake left, then punch right.
His smile slips as I land a clean hit to his ribs.
He staggers back half a step. Just one.
But it’s enough to make my chest light up like fireworks.
He straightens, rubbing the spot. “Better,” he says. Then, with a glint in his eye, “Now you’re learning.”
I spin and lunge again, fists up, knuckles aching. Grandfather ducks, then taps my shoulder with two fingers.
“Too wide. Tighten your core.”
“I’m trying,” I grit out.
“Try harder.”
I go again, this time with a sharper jab, but I stop midway.
A voice.
Rough, low and warmly familiar.
“I didn’t know you could fight like that.”
My entire body freezes mid-motion.
That voice.
I whip around, heart slamming into my ribs.
And there he is.
Darian.
Standing at the edge of the clearing.
Well, barely standing.
He looks like hell. His shirt is torn, dirt and dried blood smudged across his face. There’s a split along his brow, a deep bruise blooming across his jaw. His lip is busted, and when he tries to step forward, he stumbles.
Kelvin’s arm catches him instantly.
Adrian grips his other side, steadying him like it’s not the first time today.
My stomach drops.
“Darian?” I whisper, taking a shaky step forward. “What the hell?”
He gives me a tired smile, and it cuts straight through me.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough. “Told you I’d come back.”
But he’s limping. Every movement looks like it costs him. His usual sharp, solid gait is gone, he's dragging one foot, and from here I can see the bruises stretching all the way down his neck.
Grandfather’s stance shifts beside me, but I barely register it.
All I can see is Darian.
His eyes are still on me, warm even under the pain. But they look sunken, strained.
Like he’s been fighting his way back here with nothing but willpower.
“What happened to you?” I breathe, heart racing.
I take another step forward, then another, breaking into a run before my mind can catch up.