Modric’s POV
Kylian knocked me to the ground before sunrise.
Pain exploded through my left shoulder the moment my back struck the training-yard floor. For one second, my vision blurred.
Then his boot stopped beside my throat.
“You are dead,” he said.
I stared up at him.
“You hesitated.”
“You cannot lift your left arm.”
“I lifted it.”
“And exposed your ribs while doing so.”
I swept my leg beneath his.
Kylian jumped back before I could catch him, but the movement gave me enough space to rise.
My shoulder burned beneath the tight bandage. The wound had closed on the surface, yet the poison had slowed the deeper healing. Every strike sent pain down my arm and into my chest.
I ignored it.
The challenge was twenty-seven days away.
Pain did not matter.
Darius would not reduce his
