The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven
Chapter 166: First Physical Training

Chapter 166: First Physical Training

Meredith.

The week Draven gave me to rest had vanished as quickly as spilt water drying under the sun.

And now, standing at the centre of the training grounds, wrapped in the black combat clothes he’d gifted me, I realized rest had only left my nerves with more time to twist themselves into knots.

The morning sun hadn’t fully warmed the stone yet. The air felt fresh against my skin, but my palms were slick with sweat, making the wooden practice sword shift uneasily in my grip.

Draven stood a few paces away with folded arms. And his gaze, fixed on me, was calm, watchful, and heavy.

Dennis lounged a few meters behind, perched on a low branch of a tree, looking as relaxed as if he had wandered down just to watch the sunrise. A familiar smirk tugged at his lips.

All thanks to Draven taking the lead in giving me a week’s worth of break, I didn’t have to continue my driving lessons as Dennis followed in his steps.

Besides, according to Dennis, I had learned more than enough from our driving lessons and only needed to drive a car from point A to point B once or twice a week, just to retain the knowledge and memories.

"Try not to stab yourself," Dennis called. "Or him."

"Quiet," Draven cut in, his voice sharp as a blade. He hadn’t even turned his head.

Dennis lifted both hands in mock surrender, but the smirk stayed.

"Show me your stance," Draven ordered.

I swallowed, adjusted my feet as he’d shown me days ago: left foot forward, knees bent, weight balanced across the balls of my feet.

Draven stepped closer, his shadow brushing my boots. His gaze swept me head to toe, cold and precise.

"You are stiff," he murmured. "Loosen your shoulders. You can’t fight if you are frozen."

I exhaled, shoulders dropping despite the tightness coiling through my chest.

"And your grip," he continued. "Hold it like you mean it — not like you’re throttling it."

My fingers relaxed, then tightened again, searching for that balance.

"Swing," he commanded.

I lifted the sword and swung. Clumsy. The tip dipped at the end, pulling the momentum off.

He stopped me with a single raised hand. "Again," he said. "From the shoulder, not the elbow."

I tried again. And again.

Each time, his correction came: "Too high." "Too low." "Too slow."

Frustration burned hotter than the sun overhead. My heart pounded, breaths turning sharp.

Dennis’s voice floated in. "She’s going to murder that practice dummy any minute."

"I can hear you, you know," I snapped over my shoulder, breathless.

"Focus," Draven’s voice cut through, quiet but commanding.

I wondered why he was scolding me alone and not including his brother.

"Ah!" A scream tore through my throat. I was frustrated.

We moved on to footwork: side steps, pivot turns, and short lunges. Draven demonstrated each one, and even in the simplest move, he was fluid, coiled strength under control.

I tried to copy the steps, but my feet felt wrong — heavy, unsure. My toes scuffed the ground, throwing me off balance.

"Keep your back heel lifted," Draven instructed, stepping behind me. His hand brushed my hip, nudging it slightly. "Weight forward. Move from here."

His touch was light, impersonal, but it sent heat rushing up my neck anyway.

After another series of swings, he took the sword from my hands, flipped it, and offered it back hilt-first.

"You are fighting your own weapon," he said. "Trust your arms. Let the weight do the work."

I clenched my jaw. "It feels heavier every time."

"That means you’re using muscles you never have before." His tone softened by a fraction. "Pain isn’t weakness. Pain is proof you’re learning."

Something in his eyes, quiet and steady, made me swallow back a sharp retort. Instead, I nodded.

Dennis whistled. "That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard him say to anyone, ever."

"Would you like to join the lesson?" Draven asked, gaze flicking to Dennis.

"I’m fine here," Dennis laughed. "It’s safer."

Draven stepped back, gesturing. "Again. This time: three strikes. High, mid, low. Flow through them."

I inhaled, lifted the sword, and moved.

The first strike was too stiff, but the second flowed smoother; the third, my arm wobbled, but the blade stayed true.

I lowered the sword, chest heaving.

"Better," Draven said simply. No smile. But something faintly approving sparked in his eyes.

It was ridiculous how much that small word loosened the knot in my chest.

"Now again. Faster," he commanded.

My arms protested; sweat trickled down my temple, but I moved. Over and over.

By the tenth repetition, my shoulders burned like fire, and the practice sword might as well have been iron.

"Stop," Draven said at last.

I froze, breath ragged.

"Your face is as red as the apples in the orchard," Dennis teased.

"Shut up," I rasped, barely able to lift my head.

I wanted to disown Dennis and put an end to our friendship. He was talking and teasing me too much, as if he was on a mission to ruin my efforts.

Draven stepped closer, taking the sword gently from my hands. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, tracing a raw spot the hilt had rubbed raw.

"You didn’t drop it," he murmured. "That matters."

My chest tightened unexpectedly. Sweat clung to my skin, but warmth—something quieter, softer—settled under my ribs.

"Remember," Draven said, voice low. "Danger won’t wait for you to feel ready. You fight anyway."

I swallowed, then nodded. "I will."

Dennis pushed off the tree, strolling over, hands in his pockets. "And if you want a sparring partner who won’t scowl the whole time, you know where to find me."

"I think you’d cry the first time she lands a hit," Draven said, without looking at him.

"I’d cry from pride," Dennis corrected, smirking.

I couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped, even as my arms ached.

"I can’t wait for that day to come," I said to him.

---

Draven walked me back across the grounds, his stride slow enough for me to keep up despite my shaking legs.

"You will bruise," he said, voice quieter now. "Rest this afternoon, then stretch."

"Yes, Alpha," I teased, even as I wiped sweat from my forehead.

His lips twitched barely, but it was there.

And as the training ground faded behind me, bruises blooming under my skin, sweat drying sticky on my back, I realized:

Pain felt oddly good when it meant I hadn’t given up.

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