Cerys pressed her forehead to the chill of the simulation chamber wall, letting the metal steal a fraction of the heat raging beneath her skin. Her lungs burned as if she'd run a marathon uphill in plate, each inhale scraping against ribs already tender from too many training blows. Sweat trickled down her temple, pooling at the edge of her jaw before sliding to the floor in a slow, steady drip. The visor's seal released with a soft hiss, cool air rushing over her face.
<"Final combat simulation complete. Performance score: ninety-two out of one hundred. Remarkable. You only simulated death three times today.">
Rodion's tone was smooth as glass, yet its faint, almost smug inflection pricked at Cerys's pride. She scraped damp hair from her forehead and forced herself upright.
"I'm getting better," she rasped, voice raw from barked battle shouts and the occasional involuntary scream the visor thought it clever to muffle.
