[The cargo bay is mostly empty today. Elia has cleared a practice area-padded mats on the deck, water bottles against the bulkhead, the overhead lights dimmed to something less industrial.]
[Avyanna stands at the edge of the mats in clothes Rho found for her: soft pants that don’t restrict movement, a shirt that doesn’t chafe. Her feet are bare because Elia said shoes would teach her bad habits.]
[Elia stretches nearby. Methodical. Like they’re inventorying their own joints.]
Elia: [not looking at her] You know why we’re doing this?
Avyanna: [uncertain] Self-defense?
Elia: [standing] No. Agency practice.
[Avyanna blinks.]
Avyanna: I don’t… understand.
Elia: [walking onto the mats] In the mine, your body wasn’t yours. Someone told you where to stand, how to move, when to stop. You obeyed or you got hurt.
Elia: Here, we’re teaching your body that it belongs to you again. That you can say “stop” in the middle of a physical interaction and the other person will stop.
[They hold out a hand.]
Elia: We’re not sparring today. We’re practicing the part that comes before sparring. The part where you learn to speak while moving.
[Avyanna steps onto the mats. The surface is softer than she expected. Forgiving.]
Elia: [calm] First rule. You can stop this at any time. “Stop,” “wait,” “I need a break”-any of those words ends the session immediately. No explanation required. No consequences.
Avyanna: [swallowing] Okay.
Elia: Say it. Practice the words.
Avyanna: [forcing it out] Stop. Wait. I need a break.
Elia: [nodding] Good. Now we test it.
[Elia demonstrates a basic stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees soft, hands up but not clenched.]
Elia: Mirror me.
[Avyanna copies the stance. Her body remembers how to follow instructions.]
Elia: [watching] Your shoulders are up by your ears. That’s tension, not readiness. Drop them.
[Avyanna tries. Fails. Her shoulders are locked.]
Elia: [stepping closer] I’m going to touch your shoulders to show you where they should be. Is that acceptable?
[The question lands strange. Permission before touch.]
Avyanna: [quiet] Yes.
[Elia places their hands on her shoulders. Not gripping. Just resting. Warm through the fabric of her shirt.]
Elia: Breathe in. When you exhale, let your shoulders drop with the breath.
[Avyanna inhales. Holds. Exhales. Her shoulders drop half an inch.]
Elia: [removing their hands] Better. Your body’s learning. Let’s move.
[They walk through basic footwork. Step forward. Step back. Lateral movement. Nothing complicated. Just bodies in space, learning new patterns.]
[After five minutes, Avyanna’s breathing is labored.]
Elia: [stopping] You’re tired.
Avyanna: [defensive] I’m fine.
Elia: [flat] That’s not what I asked. I said you’re tired. Your breath says so. Your legs say so. I’m giving you information, not judgment.
[Avyanna’s hands clench.]
Avyanna: [tight] I can keep going.
Elia: [precise] I know you can. The mine taught you to push past exhaustion until your body broke. That’s not strength. That’s survival mode.
Elia: Here, you get to stop before you break.
[Avyanna stares at the mats. Breathing hard. Ashamed of her own limits.]
Elia: [gentler] I’m going to ask you a question. You’re going to answer honestly, and nothing bad will happen. Ready?
Avyanna: [barely] Yes.
Elia: Do you need a break?
[The question is a trap. It has to be a trap. Needing things is weakness. Weakness gets you hurt.]
Avyanna: [shaking] I don’t… I don’t know how to answer that.
Elia: [sitting on the mat] Then let’s practice.
[Elia pats the mat beside them. Avyanna sits. Her legs are grateful.]
Elia: The mine taught you that your needs are irrelevant. That you exist to produce, not to feel or rest or ask for things.
Elia: That’s extraction logic. We’re unlearning it.
[They pull out a water bottle, take a drink, pass it to Avyanna.]
Elia: Drink. Your body needs water. That’s not weakness. That’s biology.
[Avyanna takes the bottle. Drinks. The water is cold and clean and tastes like it was never filtered through desperation.]
Elia: Here’s the new rule. During training-during any physical work—you’re required to speak up when you need something.
Avyanna: [frowning] Required?
Elia: [nodding] Required. Water, break, slower pace, clarification, stop entirely. Whatever your body or mind needs, you say it out loud.
Elia: If you don’t, I end the session. Because I’m not interested in training someone who’s dissociated or in pain. That’s not training. That’s cruelty with a pedagogical mask.
[Avyanna processes that. Speaking up is mandatory. Silence is the failure state.]
Avyanna: [slow] You’re… flipping it. In the mine, asking for things was the mistake. Here, not asking is the mistake.
Elia: [approving] Exactly. You’re not being graded on endurance. You’re being graded on communication.
[They stand, offer a hand.]
Elia: Let’s try again. We’ll do footwork for two minutes. If at any point you need something-anything-you say so. Understood?
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Avyanna: [taking their hand, standing] Understood.
[They resume. Step forward. Step back. Lateral movement. Avyanna’s legs are shaking now. She can feel the edge of her endurance approaching.]
[She says nothing.]
[Elia stops.]
Elia: [calm] You just hit your limit and didn’t say anything. That’s strike one.
Avyanna: [startled] I… I can keep going.
Elia: [precise] That’s not the point. The point is learning to recognize and name your limits before they become injuries.
[They walk to the water bottles, hand her one.]
Elia: We’re going to practice requesting a break. Ready?
Avyanna: [confused] How do you practice asking for a break?
Elia: By asking for one. Right now. Say the words.
[Avyanna’s throat closes. The words are stuck behind shame.]
Avyanna: [shaking] I need a break.
Elia: [immediately sitting] Granted. We’ll sit for three minutes, drink water, and resume when you’re ready.
[They sit. Avyanna’s legs tremble with relief. She hates herself for being weak. She hates that Elia can see it.]
Elia: [not looking at her] You’re not weak for needing rest. You’re human for needing rest.
Avyanna: [whispered] How did you know what I was thinking?
Elia: [dry] Because I’ve trained a lot of people who came from places that taught them survival first, living second. You all have the same look when you admit you’re tired.
[They drink water in silence. The cargo bay hums around them. Ship sounds. Not mine sounds.]
Elia: [after a minute] In the Wandering Market, I learned to fight by watching people who wanted to hurt me. I got good at reading intent, predicting violence, moving before the blow landed.
Elia: But I never learned to ask for help. Or rest. Or slower pace. I thought needing anything was the same as losing.
[Avyanna looks at them. Elia’s face is neutral, but their hands are tight around the water bottle.]
Elia: Took me two years on this ship to learn that asking for things isn’t surrender. It’s strategy.
Elia: [meeting her eyes] I’m teaching you what I had to learn the hard way.
[Avyanna’s vision blurs. She blinks it away.]
Avyanna: [careful] What happens if I ask for too many breaks?
Elia: [flat] Doesn’t exist.
Elia: You take the breaks you need. If that’s one break per session or ten breaks, it doesn’t matter. Training adapts to you. You don’t break yourself to fit training.
[They stand, stretch.]
Elia: [offering a hand] Ready to continue? Or do you need more time?
Avyanna: [taking the hand] Ready.
[They resume. This time, Elia adds light contact drills. Push against my hand. Pull back when I push. Read the pressure and respond.]
[Avyanna focuses. Her body is tired but not broken. She can feel the difference now-tired is before the edge. Broken is after.]
[After ninety seconds, she needs water.]
[She hesitates. Fails to speak.]
Elia: [stopping] Strike two. You need something and you’re not saying it.
Avyanna: [frustrated] How do you know?
Elia: [tapping their temple] You’re licking your lips. Your swallows are dry. You need water. So ask for it.
[Avyanna forces the words out.]
Avyanna: [halting] Can I have water?
Elia: [immediate] Yes. Always.
[They walk to the bottles together. Drink. Elia doesn’t make it feel like failure.]
Elia: [casual] Good. You asked. That’s progress.
Avyanna: [bitter] I should have asked sooner.
Elia: [correcting] You asked. That’s the victory. Sooner comes with practice.
[They cap the bottles, return to the mats.]
Elia: Last drill. This one’s harder.
[Elia demonstrates a basic block. Arm up, deflect incoming force.]
Elia: I’m going to push toward you-slow, controlled. You’re going to block. If I’m moving too fast, you say “slower.” If you need me to demonstrate again, you say “show me.” If you need to stop, you say “stop.”
Elia: Three requests minimum. I’m not letting you finish this drill until you’ve asked for something three times.
[Avyanna blinks.]
Avyanna: You’re… requiring me to ask?
Elia: [nodding] Forcing the muscle memory. Your body needs to learn that speaking up is safe and expected.
[They begin. Elia moves toward her. Avyanna blocks. The contact is light, informative.]
[Elia speeds up slightly.]
[Avyanna’s block is late.]
Elia: [pausing] Too fast?
Avyanna: [hesitant] …Yes. Slower. Please.
Elia: [immediately slowing] Good. That’s one.
[They continue. This time Avyanna’s blocks connect properly. She can read the movement, anticipate the angle.]
[Elia adds a variation-pushing from a different direction.]
[Avyanna stumbles, confused.]
Avyanna: [frustrated] I don’t understand what you just did.
Elia: [stopping] Then ask me to show you.
[Avyanna’s pride fights her survival instinct. Survival wins.]
Avyanna: [quiet] Can you show me? Slower?
Elia: [demonstrating in slow motion] I’m coming from your left now, not center. Same block, different angle. Like this.
[They demonstrate three times. Avyanna watches. Learns.]
Elia: [approving] That’s two. One more request and we’re done.
[They resume. Avyanna blocks successfully now. She’s reading Elia’s body, predicting movement. It feels almost like partnering, not fighting.]
[And then she hits the wall. Exhaustion. Real exhaustion, not just tired.]
[She needs to stop. But they said three requests. She’s used two. One more and the drill ends.]
[She could ask for water. Or demonstration. Something smaller than stop.]
[But her body is screaming stop.]
Elia: [watching her face] You’re calculating.
Avyanna: [shaking] I need… I need to stop. But you said three requests and I’ve only-
Elia: [interrupting, firm] Stop is valid. Stop is always valid. That’s your third. We’re done.
[Avyanna nearly collapses. Elia steadies her, guides her to sit.]
Elia: [kneeling beside her] You just did something hard. You recognized your limit and named it. That’s the whole lesson.
[Avyanna’s hands are shaking. She wraps them around her knees.]
Avyanna: [hoarse] I thought… I thought saying stop would mean I failed.
Elia: [gentle] Saying stop means you passed. The test is communication, not endurance.
[They hand her water. She drinks. Her throat is raw.]
Elia: [after a moment] Tomorrow, we’ll do this again. Same drills, same rules. And the day after, and the day after that. Until asking for what you need feels less like confession and more like breathing.
Avyanna: [quiet] How long does that take?
Elia: [standing, offering a hand] Depends on the person. For me? About six months.
[Avyanna takes the hand. Lets Elia pull her to her feet.]
Elia: [meeting her eyes] But you’ve got a crew who’s patient. And a ship that doesn’t count survival as productivity. So you’ve got time.
[Avyanna nods. Her legs are unsteady but functional.]
[Elia cleans up the training space-water bottles stowed, mats folded. Casual domesticity after intensity.]
Elia: [not looking at her] You did well today.
Avyanna: [surprised] I could barely finish.
Elia: [turning] You asked for what you needed three times. You stopped when you hit your limit. You stayed present instead of dissociating.
Elia: That’s not barely finishing. That’s acing the curriculum.
[Avyanna leaves the cargo bay. In the corridor, she leans against the bulkhead and breathes.]
(I said stop. I said slower. I asked for water. And Elia didn’t punish me. Didn’t even judge me.)
[The shard at the base of her skull is warm. Attentive.]
(A low, warm pressure at the base of her skull: speak. Safe. Yours.)
[She pushes off the wall and walks back to her quarters. Her muscles ache. It’s the good ache—the kind that means use, not damage.]
[Tomorrow, she’ll ask for breaks again. And again. Until her body believes it’s allowed.]
Starforge Canticles, a follow/favorite (and rating) helps a lot.
https://linktr.ee/cessnyalin
Floors, not thrones.