Chapter 25: The Training Begins
The quiet of the chamber became a cage within three days.
Y/n started pacing first thing in the morning, a restless panther in silk pajamas, tracing the lines of emerald moss until Milly thought she’d wear a groove in the marble. The healers came and went, changing bandages that were already pristine, muttering about divine resilience in grudging tones. The wound was closing, a twisted knot of scar tissue over her spine, but the way Y/n held herself—stiff, compensating—told the real story.
“Stop hovering,” Y/n said on the fourth day, not unkindly, as Milly adjusted a pillow for the tenth time.
“You’re walking like you’ve got a pole shoved somewhere unpleasant,” Milly shot back. “Forgive me for noticing.”
A ghost of a smile. “I need to move. Properly. Not this shuffling.”
“The healers said rest.”
“The healers aren’t fighting Herakles in six weeks.” Y/n finally stopped pacing, her gaze landing on Milly with unsettling focus. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere I can breathe.”
The courtyard was nothing like Milly expected. No sunlight, of course, but the darkness here was alive. It was a sunken square of polished black marble, walled in by sleek onyx. Silver moss clung to the joints between stones, emitting a faint, shimmering light that made everything look like it was viewed through moving water. Braziers dotted the perimeter, their flames a deep, restless blue, casting long, whispering shadows that seemed to twitch at the edge of vision.
In the center stood a row of figures.
They were practice dummies, but to call them that felt insulting. They were carved from obsidian, each one a unique, faceless form, some tall and broad, others sinuous and lean. The ground beneath them was not stone, but a fine, dark gravel that shifted with a soft, sighing sound underfoot, as if the earth beneath was inhaling.
“My playground,” Y/n said, her voice echoing faintly in the enclosed space. She had changed into simple black training gear—loose pants, a tight tank top that showed the stark line of bandages wrapping her torso. Her feet were bare against the strange gravel.
“It’s creepy,” Milly said, hugging herself. The air hummed, a low-frequency thrum she felt in her teeth. It smelled of ozone and cold stone.
“It’s quiet.” Y/n walked toward the center, her steps careful but deliberate. She didn’t go to the dummies. Instead, she sank into a low stance, knees bent, arms loose at her sides. She closed her eyes.
For a minute, there was only the sound of that hum and the shift of gravel as Y/n began to move. It was a slow, painful-looking series of stretches, each rotation of her shoulders, each twist of her spine, making her breath catch. A fine sheen of sweat appeared on her temples after only a few minutes.
Milly found a low bench cut into the wall and sat, watching. She’d seen Y/n move before—with lethal, graceful purpose on the Field. This was different. This was archaeology. She was excavating her own body, testing each joint, each muscle, mapping the damage.
Finally, Y/n straightened. She walked to the wall where two long, wrapped bundles leaned. She undid the ties on one, and the twin blades of her stygian iron scythe gleamed in the brazier light, swallowing the blue flame and reflecting nothing back.
She hefted it. The weapon, usually an extension of her, seemed heavier. She adjusted her grip, winced, adjusted again.
Then she began.
It wasn’t the whirlwind of destruction Milly had witnessed. It was a drill. A single, downward diagonal strike. She executed it, stopped, reset her feet. Again. And again. The whoosh of the blade cut the hum of the courtyard into pieces. Each repetition was precise, controlled, and brutally slow. After the fifth, she switched to a horizontal sweep. Her breath started coming in sharper gusts.
“You’re favoring your left side,” Milly said, not meaning to speak.
Y/n didn’t stop. “I know.”
“You’re going to tear something.”
“Probably.”
On the twelfth repetition of a thrust, her right leg buckled. It was a tiny stumble, a mere hitch in her rhythm, but the scythe’s blade dipped, scraping a shower of sparks from the marble floor. Y/n cursed, a raw, guttural word that echoed. She braced herself on the shaft, head bowed.
Milly was on her feet without thinking. She crossed the shifting gravel, the strange surface cool and unsettling under her sandals.
“Enough,” Milly said, her voice softer than she intended.
Y/n’s knuckles were white on the scythe. “It’s not.”
“You’ll undo all the healing.”
“What good is healed if I’m slow?” Y/n pushed off the shaft and tried the thrust again. Her body obeyed, but it was a trembling, strained obedience. The blade wavered in its arc.
Frustration boiled over in Milly. She stepped into Y/n’s space, not touching the weapon, but putting a hand firmly on Y/n’s bare shoulder. The skin was fever-hot, the muscle beneath corded tight as wire. “Stop.”
Y/n flinched at the touch, or at the command. Her green eyes, when they met Milly’s, were blazing with pain and a fury that had no place to go. “I have to do this.”
“Why? Right now? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Because he’s up there!” Y/n’s shout ripped through the courtyard, silencing the whisper of the shadows. “He’s drinking and laughing and waiting for Zeus to smooth it all over. He’s not thinking about me. He’s not seeing this.” She gestured at herself, at the sweat and the tremor in her limbs. “I need to be ready. I need to be more than ready. I need to be inevitable.”
“You’re one person,” Milly said, her hand still on Y/n’s shoulder, holding her there, anchoring her. “You can’t just muscle through a divine arrow to the back.”
“What else is there?” The question was a plea, stripped of all grandeur.
Milly’s other hand came up, cupping Y/n’s jaw. Her thumb brushed over the stark line of her cheekbone. “Strategy. Patience. Letting people help you.” She moved closer, their breath mingling in the cool air. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
Y/n’s eyes searched hers. The fury bled away, leaving something vulnerable and terrified in its wake. The scythe clattered to the gravel, forgotten. “It’s not about proving,” Y/n whispered, the words warm against Milly’s lips. “It’s about making sure I survive to stay with you.”
The confession hung between them, more intimate than any kiss. It wasn’t about glory or vengeance. It was about a future. A fragile, impossible thing they’d barely begun to name.
Milly felt her own resolve crumble. She leaned in, closing the last inch, and kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, a collision of fear and want, salt from sweat and the sharp, electric taste of something inherently other. Y/n’s hands came up, framing Milly’s face, her touch shaking but sure. For a long moment, the courtyard, the duel, the pantheon—none of it existed.
When they broke apart, foreheads touching, the world rushed back in.
“Okay,” Milly breathed, her own heart hammering. “Okay. Then we train smart. Not just hard. You show me what to do. I’ll be your… spotter. Or your critic. Or the person who tells you when you’re being a stubborn idiot.”
A sound escaped Y/n—a breath that was almost a laugh, choked with relief. “You’re good at that last one.”
“I’m a history student. We’re professional critics of dead idiots. You’re just a live one.” Milly kissed her again, quickly. “Now show me the drill again. And this time, don’t lock your right knee.”
As Y/n bent to retrieve her scythe, a new determination in her movements, Milly looked up. High above, in a gallery carved into the onyx wall, she saw a flicker of movement. Three silhouettes, slender and sharp, watching. Their eyes glinted like wet stones.
The Furies. Of course. Nothing in the Underworld was ever truly private.
Milly didn’t look away. She met their gaze and gave a slow, deliberate nod. Watch, she thought. She’s not alone.
Y/n followed her line of sight, her body tensing. Milly put a hand on her arm. “Ignore them. They’re just part of the scenery.” She picked up the other wrapped bundle from the wall. It was lighter than she expected. “What’s this? My stick to poke you with when you do it wrong?”
Y/n’s real laugh, the one that sounded like winter thawing, finally broke free. It was a ragged, beautiful sound. “Open it.”
Milly undid the cloth. Inside was not a weapon, but a simple, beautifully crafted armguard of aged leather and dark iron. It was sized for a mortal.
“So you don’t get in the way of my swing,” Y/n said, her smile small but real.
Milly strapped it on. It fit perfectly. “Alright, hotshot. Show me the thrust. And for the love of God, try not to fall over.”