As the intense sparring session with Gwendolyn finally came to an end, I found myself gasping for breath, my muscles burning with exhaustion. Each movement felt like wading through molasses, and the weight of my fatigue threatened to pull me under. Gwendolyn, on the other hand, looked barely tired, watching me keel over from where she stood.
I could imagine she was silently judging me, wondering how I was so pathetic in comparison to her. My silent vow to show her up felt like nothing more than a desperate oath. I had foolishly compared myself to the boys I sparred with where I lived, thinking beating them was a massive accomplishment. With Gwendolyn putting me down, I suddenly felt anxious, thinking about getting revenge for my grandmother. How was I going to kill the king if I couldn't even wield a sword properly?
