Huh?
What?, Linda thought.
Linda lay frozen, her chest heaving in a rhythmic, desperate gallop.
Sweat glued her silver hair to her forehead and neck, and the air in the Ferrymark Inn felt suffocatingly thick compared to the sterile clarity of that white room.
Linda lay motionless, her lungs burning as she gasped for air, but beneath the panic was a humming, electric current of pure euphoria. Down on the back of her hand, her blessing mark - the thirteen-rayed sun of Vael - pulsed with a soft, rhythmic gold light that seemed to beat in time with her racing heart. Her skin still felt hypersensitized, the ghost of Vael’s touch lingering like a brand on her thighs and breasts.
There was a heavy, satisfied ache deep in her very core, a psychic residue of the goddess claiming her.
The Aelvyn closed her eyes, a small, shaky smile touching her lips.
The transition back to reality was jarring, but Linda didn't regret a single second. Vael had taken her new, proverbial virginity, and the thought that she belonged to a goddess made the terrifying uncertainty of Velmoira feel suddenly manageable.
But she still didn't get her crash course...
Oh, Linda guessed she could forgive Vael for that this time...
"Twelve fucking Hells. So, you finally done draining your seed, or you still vibrating like a plucked lute string?" The voice asked, the familiar rasp making Linda's brain come back
Linda bolted upright, nearly falling off the bed as she scrambled to pull her sheets over her lap and chest.
Standing in the doorway was Izze, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed over her chest. The Krithaks yellow eyes were narrowed, flicking from Linda’s flushed face down to the tangled, damp sheets and back again. She didn't look disgusted - just amused in that blunt, clinical way that a veteran who had seen it all mustered for every occasion.
Linda opened her mouth to defend herself, but the words died in her throat.
What was the rebuttal here? Actually, Izze, I was just abducted by a forbidden deity into a metaphysical space for a session of divine sex? That sounded like a fast track to a padded cell. To anyone else, she was just a silver-haired girl who had spent an hour panting and twitching in a bed alone. The evidence was literally sticking to her thighs, and her face was still the color of a ripe tomato.
"I... I was just having a weird dream," Linda managed to get out, her voice sounding breathy, even to her own ears.
She gripped the linen sheets tighter, trying to ignore the lingering, electric hum in her blood.
The shy programmer in Linda was screaming, wanting to hide under the mattress and vanish back into the safety of Vael's amazing boo- arms...
Being perceived was hard enough...
Being perceived in the aftermath of a divine orgasm was a nightmare of social anxiety.
Izze snorted, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room with a heavy, rhythmic thud of her boots.
"Dream, my ass. You look like you just ran a marathon through a swamp and won a prize at the end of it." Izze argued as she gathered up Linda's gear and threw it on the bed. "Save the self-pleasuring for after hours, princess. We've got Drevan-damned training to do!"
Linda shook her head vigorously, trying to dispel the shimmering, golden haze that still clung to the edges of her vision. The ghost of Vael's touch felt like a warm current humming under her skin, making the mundane air of the room feel suddenly thin and cold.
Once the Krithak finally stomped out of the room, leaving a trail of blunt insults in her wake, Linda hurried to the inn's bathing facilities. She let the lukewarm water scrub away the physical remnants of the void, though the pulsing mark on her hand remained a vivid, secret reminder. The heat of the bath helped settle her nerves, grounding her back into the reality of soap, wet stone, and the distant sound of early-morning livestock.
Dressing was a ritual of restriction.
Linda started with her linen underclothes, the rough fabric scratching against her tan skin, before sliding into the tailored leathers Izze had provided. The leather was thick and smelled of oil, designed more for absorbing the impact of a blunt weapon than for fashion. She cinched her belt tight, feeling the weight of the gear pull against her curves, and tugged on her sturdy boots, lacing them tight to the calf to ensure no ankle would twist in the muddy terrain of Quorrith. Finally, she pulled on her gloves, the leather palms reinforced for a better grip on a hilt, effectively sealing her away from the world in a second, tougher skin.
Standing before the small, cracked mirror, Linda adjusted the collar of her tunic to hide the curve of her neck. She looked different - stronger, perhaps - but the familiar knot of anxiety still tightened in her stomach at the thought of facing the guild...
But she would give it her all…
When Linda stepped out of the Ferrymark Inn, the morning air hit her with a sharp, damp chill that smelled of wet wool and livestock. Izze was already there, a small, jagged silhouette against the grey light, tapping a heavy boot against the muddy cobblestones with an impatient, rhythmic thud. The goblin’s yellow eyes snapped up the moment the door creaked, scanning Linda from her boots to her silver hair with a critical, weathered gaze.
"Took you long enough," Izze huffed while cracking her neck. "Hope you spent that time mentally preparing to eat dirt, because that's where you'll be for the next four hours."
Linda shifted her weight, clutching the straps of her gear, and managed a small, hesitant nod.
"I'm ready," Linda replied, her chin tilted up and her stomach feeling nauseous.
The training ground was a miserable stretch of uneven grass and packed clay behind the guild hall, littered with splintered posts and rusted target dummies. A few bronze and silver ranks were in the hall, but none were outside training.
Linda held up hand to block the sun, the light beaming down on her face, and she decided today was the day she'd die again…
Here she was...
In leather...
Under a sun the Aelvyn was sure was bigger than Earth's...
Ready to get thrown around like a sack of potatoes...
Greeeeaaaattttt…, Linda thought.
Huh?
The word hadn't even fully formed in Linda's mind before the world tilted.
With a sudden, violent blur of motion, Izze’s foot flashed forward, hooking behind Linda’s ankle and sweeping her legs out from under her with clinical precision. There was no warning, no "ready, set, go."
One second Linda was standing on solid ground...
The next?
She was airborne for a terrifying heartbeat before slamming flat onto her back. The impact knocked the wind out of her in a sharp oomph, dirt and weeds biting into her shoulder blades and sending a jolt of shock through her spine.
Izze didn't offer a hand.
Instead, the Krithak stood over her, a small, jagged shadow blocking out the sun. She looked down with those piercing yellow eyes, her expression as flat and hard as the ground Linda was currently tasting.
"Lesson one, sunshine! Expect the unexpected," Izze said while looking down at her. "In a real fight, the enemy isn't going to wait for you to finish your internal monologue or find your center. They're going to trip you, stab you, or rip your throat out while you're still wondering if you tied up your horse."
Izze reached down, grabbing Linda’s wrist and hauling her upward with a sudden, jarring yank that nearly dislocated her shoulder. Once Linda was steady, the goblin didn't step back; she moved in close, her small, calloused hands shoving Linda’s hips back and forcing her knees into a wide, low crouch. She slapped Linda’s forearm, twisting it inward to lock the elbow and bringing her guard up to chin-level.
"And this is..." Linda said, as she tried to find her balance.
"The only way you're not getting your teeth kicked in," Izze grunted, shoving Linda's center of gravity lower until her thighs burned. "This is the foundation. Keep your weight distributed, knees bent, chin tucked. You're not a tree; you're a spring. The moment you lock your legs or stand tall and proud, you're just making it easier for me to knock you over." The Krithak explained.
Izze didn't stop there.
The Krithak began a rhythmic sequence of drills, focusing on the economy of motion. She forced Linda to throw a straight jab, correcting the angle of her shoulder to ensure the punch traveled the shortest distance to the target. Then came the footwork - shuffling laterally to maintain a centerline, pivoting on the ball of the lead foot to slip a simulated strike. Every time Linda’s form wavered or her focus drifted toward the horizon, Izze’s calloused palm snapped against her ribs or her elbow jabbed into her kidney, grounding her in the immediate, visceral reality of the fight.
Linda breathed in sharp, jagged gulps, her mind instinctively trying to analyze the physics of the movements like a line of code. She focused on the way her weight shifted from heel to toe, the tension in her core acting as the anchor for every movement. It was a different kind of security than that of protecting a server, she was learning to protect her own vitals. She felt the grit of the training ground beneath her boots and the restrictive pull of the leather armor, realizing that every second of hesitation was a gap in her defenses that a predator would exploit.
The sequence was a grueling loop...
A lead-hand jab...
A slip to the right...
A pivot on the ball of her foot...
And a heavy counter-hook.
Just as Linda began to find a rhythmic flow, her trailing foot lagged by a fraction of an inch, causing her balance to tilt. Before she could correct it, Izze’s foot snapped out, hooking her ankle and sending her sprawling backward into the dirt. Without a word, the Krithak stepped back to the starting position, her yellow eyes narrowed and expectant, signaling for Linda to stand and begin the entire sequence from the first jab.
The Aelvyn rose, her muscles trembling and her skin slick with sweat.
Definitely going to die, Linda thought with absolute dread.
She repeated the sequence, focusing on the economy of motion, but as she pivoted for the hook, she let her chin lift slightly, exposing her throat.
Izze didn't let her finish the strike.
The Krithak's palm slammed into Linda's jaw with a sharp crack that rattled her teeth and sent a spray of saliva into the air.
Again, Izze stepped back to the start, her silence more demanding than any shout. Linda reset her stance, her jaw throbbing, and began the loop for the tenth time - her movements becoming more mechanical and desperate - but she felt like she was learning.
"You've got the gist of it," Izze finally huffed, though her voice held no warmth, just analytical. "Your balance is barely there, and you're still thinking too much before you move, but you're not falling over every three seconds anymore. It’s a start, but you're still a long way from not hollow-food."
The Krithak turned on her heel and gestured toward a heavy wooden weapon rack that looked like it had survived a dozen different wars. It was a cluttered assortment of iron and steel - short swords, maces, and weighted training clubs.
Everything a weapons fanatic would ever want was there...
Well, not everything, but a lot nonetheless.
Linda wiped a streak of grime from her cheek, her eyes scanning the rusted array of steel. "Are we... are we going to pick a weapon for me now?" she asked, eyeing the weapon rack warily.
Izze let out a sharp, grating snort and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Pick? Who said anything about picking? We’re gonna see which weapon actually tolerates you first. Steel don't lie. If you're clumsy, a sword'll just be a fancy way to chop your own toes off." Izze answered.
The Krithak reached into the rack and hauled out a longsword. It was a heavy, double-edged piece of tempered steel with a crossguard scarred by years of misuse. The blade was nearly as long as Izze was tall, looking absurdly oversized and ungainly in the Krithak's small, calloused hands. Yet, Izze didn't struggle with the weight, shifting her grip with a practiced flick of the wrist, the metal singing as she hoisted it up and thrust the hilt toward Linda’s chest with a grunt.
Linda reached out, her fingers closing around the leather-wrapped grip, but dropped the weapon into the dirt with an "Eeep!".
"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to- it just slipped, I—" Linda stumbled as she scrambled to pick it up, her face heating up as she stammered.
Izze didn't even blink.
The Krithak watched the clumsy retrieval with a look of profound boredom, though there was no shock in her yellow eyes. To Izze, Linda’s lack of coordination was a foregone conclusion, a mathematical certainty.
"Quit apologizing to the dirt, silver-tits. The sword doesn't have feelings, and neither do I. Just gotta keep going down the line in the weapon rack because that obviously wasn't for you..." Izze sighed and continued on with the choosing.
The next hour became a repetitive cycle of failure and frustration.
The Aelvyn tried a heavy mace, but the top-heavy balance sent her stumbling forward, nearly planting her face in the mud. A spear was worse; the long shaft acted like a lever that threw her off-center the moment she tried to thrust, leaving her flailing to maintain her balance. She attempted a war-axe, but the sheer weight of the head dragged her shoulder down, ruining her posture and leaving her ribs wide open for a strike. Each weapon felt like a foreign object fighting against her, an awkward extension of a body she still didn't quite trust.
Then, Izze shoved a shortsword into her hand.
The weight was immediate and manageable, the center of gravity sitting comfortably near the guard. Linda shifted her grip, testing the balance, and found that she didn't have to fight the blade to keep her wrist straight. When she stepped into a basic thrust, her shoulder aligned naturally with the point, the weapon acting as a precise, linear extension of her arm rather than a clumsy anchor. For the first time that morning, the physics made sense; the shortsword didn't demand a level of brute strength she didn't possess, but instead rewarded the economy of motion Izze had been drilling into her.
Right after, Izze handed her a recurve bow made of a dark, flexible wood. As Linda notched a blunt training arrow, she felt a strange, familiar click in her mind, similar to the way a complex piece of code finally snapped into place. Drawing the string back to her cheek, she felt the tension load across her back muscles, creating a stable tripod of bone and sinew.
Both felt like coming home.
Woah...
Linda let out a long, shaky breath, her fingers still curled around the grip of the bow.
"These two..." Linda stated, closing her eyes and then opening them again after a while. "The shortsword and the bow... they just feel right. Like it's natural, or something." She didn't look up, her gaze fixed on the target, but the tension in her shoulders had finally vanished, replaced by a tentative, budding sense of competence.
Izze grunted, crossing her arms over her chest as she appraised Linda’s stance.
"Finally. Took you fucking long enough to stop fighting the equipment." Izze responded, her eyes tracing the alignment of Linda's elbow and the steady set of her lead foot. "Got the right anatomy for the shortsword and most Aelvyn know how to use a bow, so that's not a surprise. But you don't have Thalmir's Blessing like most Aelvyn do... Ah, well whatever. If it works, it works."
Linda lowered the bow, her mind whirling.
"Do the gods... do they usually favor certain races?" Linda asked softly, her voice barely rising above the rustle of the wind. "I mean, is it like a preference thing?"
Izze let out a sharp, hacking laugh.
"Preference? It’s more like a habit. Thalmir loves his Aelvyn, Brannok’s got a thing for the Gromreki, and Mirelle basically lives in the ears of the Ulmari. It’s a pattern, not a rule. The gods will slap a Blessing on anyone they feel like or anyone who’s useful enough to bother with." Izze explained with a shrug.
Linda processed this, her mind drifting back to the stories she'd heard growing up.
It felt eerily similar to the Abrahamic concept of chosen people - the idea of a deity picking a specific group to favor - but here, it lacked the polished, scripted feel of a Sunday school lesson. In her old life, those narratives often felt like tools for control, fairy tales designed to keep people in line. But in Velmoira, the evidence was written in ink on skin and manifested in the way a person could control vines or mend a bone.
"So," Linda said, shifting her weight and glancing at the shortsword resting nearby. "Since we found the gear... is the actual weapon training next?"
Izze froze, then threw her head back and let out a loud, wheezing cackle that sounded like a gravel crusher.
The Krithak laughed until she coughed, wiping a tear from her eye with a thumb.
"Twelve fucking Hells... Weapon training! Look at you, thinking you’ve graduated to the shiny toys because you didn't drop the sword on your foot this time." Izze chortled, but the laughter died instantly, replaced by a sharp, predatory glint. "Listen. A blade is just a piece of metal. Do you know your own body? You're an Aelvyn with amnesia. Answer. No, the fuck you don't. So we're going to do the basics until my teachings are ground into that pretty head of yours... And then we can start weapons training."
Linda grumbled, but didn’t argue.
How could she?
Izze was right, so she set the bow down and got back into her stance.
The Krithak grinned wide, showing her pointed teeth, and lunged at Linda…
Spoiler
15, and a spicy 16.
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