By day three, I was sure Sister Clarity had it in for me.
Maybe it was the mouthing off.
Maybe it was because I had better tits — and yes, I'm including symmetry, bounce, and battlefield presence.
Maybe it was because I smiled too much, or not enough, or because I didn't cry during the daily sermons about ancestral chains and the purity of scar tissue.
Or maybe — and this is the one I'm betting on — she had unresolved daddy issues and saw me as a walking embodiment of everything her patriarchal upbringing told her to repress.
Whatever it was, she'd decided I was a problem.
And Sister Clarity?
She solved problems with pain, posture correction, and a voice like sanctified vinegar.
So when they handed me a broadsword — a real one, full weight, edge like a political argument — I should've known she was hoping I'd impale myself before lunch.
Sister Clarity barked, "Two hands, Sister Steel. Balance in the hips. Strength in the core. Purpose in the heart."
Right. Core. Hips. Purpose.
I gripped the hilt like it was trying to escape and gave it a test swing.
And immediately spun in a full, unintentional pirouette.
"Shit—"
My foot caught on a rock, the blade whipped sideways, and I stumbled. Momentum took over. The sword wobbled in my hands like an angry fish and carved a wild arc through the air.
The tip passed within an inch of Sergeant Clarity's arm — close enough to shave the hair off it, if she'd had any. Her eyes went wide, then narrow, then positively apocalyptic.
"STEEL!"
But I wasn't done.
The second swing — completely unintentional, thank you very much — veered toward the zealot twins. They stood side by side, wooden training swords raised in synchronized devotion.
The blade whooshed past, parting the air between them.
Pillar-of-Dawn shrieked.
Echo-of-Flame ducked.
Both hit the dirt like divine retribution was inbound.
Dust exploded around us.
Mercy-of-Gold giggled somewhere behind me.
Loma screamed, "SHE'S LOST CONTROL!"
I fell flat on my back. Sword clanged beside me, missing my foot by half an inch.
Silence.
Then wheezing.
Then more giggles.
Then curses.
Sister Clarity's boots stomped toward me, kicking up small clouds of fury with every step.
"You," she said slowly, voice trembling with the promise of future torment, "are not to touch a blade again until the Mother Flame herself appears in your dreams and gives permission. Is that clear?"
I gave her a thumbs up from the ground.
"Crystal," I wheezed. "Sisterly clarity achieved."
And then I just lay there, blinking at the sky, covered in dust and shame and the ringing silence of narrowly avoided homicide.