Hell.
That was the only word that accurately described what I went through.
Training.
They called it training but I called it attempted murder.
We didn't even do anything extreme—just basic stretches, light exercises, things that looked harmless on the surface.
But apparently, my body disagreed with the concept of "basic," because by the end of it, I felt like my soul had been gently removed from my body and had not returned.
Gawain had even helped me last night to continue my training.
Helped.
If that was help, I feared what his idea of torture looked like.
Now?
Every single muscle in my body was sore.
I lay there on my bed, staring at the ceiling, contemplating my life choices and whether I could simply retire from existence.
Beep.
That single, traitorous sound echoed through my room like a warning bell of incoming suffering.
