Grace's face met mud.
Again.
For like the thousandth fucking time today.
"Too slow!" Valkyrie's boot pressed between her shoulder blades, grinding her deeper into the muck. "The Flame won't wait for you to catch your breath."
[I'm going to die. Not from the Flame. From this psycho's training.]
Three days. Three days of absolute hell and Grace felt like her body was held together by nothing but spite and prayer. Every muscle screamed bloody murder. Every joint felt like someone had replaced the cartilage with broken glass.
Even breathing hurt.
"Get up."
Grace pushed against the ground. Her arms shook like jello in an earthquake. Somehow—through sheer stubbornness and maybe a little divine intervention—she made it to her knees.
Valkyrie's sword whistled through the air.
Grace threw herself sideways, feeling the blade part the air where her neck used to be.
"Better." Valkyrie reset her stance like she hadn't just tried to decapitate someone. "But still sloppy."
