I'd had a little time to poke through the supply crates earlier in the morning and found that, while tinning apparently hadn't been invented, or widely circulated, mason jars with wax seals were being used to preserve food.

  A wonderful variety of meats, vegetables, fruits, and jams had been collected by the camp and sorted.

  While it wasn't fresh fare, it would be simple enough to heat a pan, slice some semi-stale bread, and make some toast to enjoy with salted pork, cheese, peppers, and a fruit medley to round it out.

  Sadly, there were no eggs among the preserved foods. They'd either all already been eaten, or hadn't been among the items stolen from the caravans.

  My guess was that it was ultimately a much more local dietary item.

  What interested me was that two of the crates had been constructed with a double layering of wooden panels. The lids of each were tightly grooved in order to ensure a firm and precise fit over the bottom portion of the box.

  Tucked neatly into the corner of the lid was a small power crystal, which had been operating a sigil on one of the inside walls of the box.

  When I'd detected the power, I'd carefully pried one of them open to discover the contents lightly dusted in frost. Several jars of what I guessed were caviar and various seafoods were wrapped and padded along the bottom of each crate.

  Clearly this was their version of refrigeration, though the extra precautions to insulate the items were inefficient, and the sigil was likely working overly hard to keep everything chilly.

  It just went to show that technology was developing along a similar vein to what I was used to.

  These crates were among those inscribed with the shield logo and were clearly imports destined for a... finer clientele. Likely, the same nobles running the operation here at the camp.

  I left the crates for now and would potentially treat Armela to a richer dining experience later on. Assuming she had the stomach for seafood.

  I sat by the fire and managed a small fleet of drones to coordinate all the different moving parts of the operation.

  I could simply heat the pan through induction, but the wood smoke from the fire always added a certain... 'je ne sais quoi' to the flavour of the food.

  By the time Armela wandered through the flap of the tent, her food was ready and steaming on a simple wooden plate resting on a stump by the fire.

  A small pewter cup of squeezed orange juice rested neatly beside it. Or rather, I supposed it was a cup of whatever amounted to an orange here. It had the same colouring, consistency, and flavour, so I figured it was close enough.

  The second her eyes landed on the plate, an audible gurgle erupted from her stomach.

  I had imagined that none of the prisoners had been fed very well, likely either scraps or slop. So the sight of real, substantial, satiating food probably triggered some sort of feral instinct in her brain.

  I'd tripled down on the amount of meat I prepared specifically for her benefit. If her pointed teeth and fluffy ears were any sign, meat was more than likely a staple in her diet.

  Like rice or corn had been for humans.

  I could sense the barely restrained urge to savage the food on the stump practically radiating off of her as she walked towards me. The forced purpose in her gait was almost hard to watch.

  I'd thought for sure we were beyond keeping up appearances, but apparently this was another aspect of herself she wasn't terribly comfortable showing to the world at large.

  Though her efforts were somewhat impeded by the drool trailing down her chin by the time she reached her seat.

  "Is there anything you can't do?"

  She asked as she collected her plate and cup and sat atop the stump.

  She didn't even wait for the reply as she began shovelling food into her mouth as quickly as her teeth and tongue could process it.

  "I'm sure there's a longer list of those things than there is of the ones I can do, but nothing specific springs to mind at the moment."

  I still wasn't sure what level of snark was appropriate between us.

  Her chewing slowed fractionally as she considered my answer, then, around a mouth full of pork, she spat.

  "Could have just said no, idiot."

  As she resumed chewing, I pursed my lips and weighed my options.

  Sitting across from her now, and given the cavalier attitude she'd carried this morning, you'd hardly think she'd been through a traumatic event just the day prior. Either it was being deeply repressed, or she'd already somehow found the strength to move forward from it.

  Maybe that was how things were here? Their decision to execute the beast by committee struck me as rather brutal, so perhaps they were more desensitised to things of that nature than I was.

  I tested my luck to see where it landed me.

  "If you're not careful, you might end up making your way off that list."

  I levelled the fork I'd been using to handle the pork at her with a menacing gaze.

  She immediately choked on her food as the plate was sent clattering to the dirt at her feet and her hands shot to her throat in the universal sign for 'I'm-fucking-choking-to-death'.

  I waited, listening for any gasps or wheezes that might mean some air was still getting through.

  Sure enough, she was absolutely silent as she tottered away from the fire.

  Sighing, I stood and followed after her.

  Catching her, I bent her at the waist and immediately administered back blows.

  Careful to moderate my strength so as not to cause more harm than good, after the fourth blow, a sizeable chunk of pork ejected from her mouth and she collapsed to the ground gasping, panting and coughing.

  I marvelled at just how spectacularly that had blown up in my face and once again considered whether I'd been cursed with horribly inadequate social skills in return for the gifts I'd been given.

  I knew that wasn't the case though; my awkwardness had definitely carried over from my time spent as a mortal man. And as I watched her sputtering on the ground, I resolved to work on diminishing my ineptitude in dealing with other people, and the social situations that brought with it.

  If I were going to affix myself as the enigmatic leader of a religion, I needed to, at the very least, be able to conduct myself with more poise than a bumbling simpleton.

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  After the coughing fits had subsided, and she was back to breathing less desperately, I sheepishly offered her my hand to help her up.

  She looked at it for a bit before huffing out.

  "There's a joke... somewhere here... about... choking on your... pork."

  I laughed heartily and remarked that my pork would have been much easier to get out of her throat.

  Armela was too busy making sure she got enough oxygen to her brain to laugh quite as jovially as I was, but she chuckled between gasps.

  She took my hand, and we resumed eating. I cautioned her to slow down, and she immediately told me to keep my stupid trap shut while she was eating from now on, to which I acquiesced.

  We ate peacefully. Save for the soft grunts and chewing sounds emanating from her side of the fire.

  It didn't seem to matter how much pork I produced; she continued to pack it away somewhere in her belly. She must have been on the brink of starvation.

  Eventually I cut her off, growing concerned that she might inadvertently cause more harm by the gratuitous intake of nutrients. Instead, pivoting to the first stage of her 'training'.

  I'd cleared and levelled a small area of dirt roughly five by five metres for us to use as a sparring zone.

  I led her in a series of stretches meant to limber up her muscles and promote blood flow.

  She struggled with some of the yoga positions we ran through as her aching body was still recovering from the savage beating she'd been subjected to at the hands of the Warlord, but soldiered on despite the visible discomfort.

  She'd started off questioning the point of the exercise, but as the strain continued, and more muscles were involved, she opted to hold her tongue.

  By the end of the set, she was panting lightly, strained either by the workout itself or the pain incurred by it; I couldn't tell.

  We took a brief break so she could drink some water and catch her breath before we continued.

  "Were those stretches common where you come from?"

  She asked after taking a swig from her cup.

  I thought back on all the stretches I'd been taught through school and sports, then the different yoga positions I'd learned about and had attempted.

  I'd had received no formal training in any discipline even remotely related to physical training.

  In fact, I had no martial experience whatsoever, and couldn't have told her the first thing about combat techniques.

  Of all the knowledge I'd been granted, this area of expertise must have been deemed somewhat superfluous by my God.

  So in helping to make her stronger, some of what I was going to be imparting was ultimately going to be complete and utter bullshit.

  And for that, I needed to apologise to both her and every single combat instructor I'd inadvertently be doing wrong in the process.

  "It was common enough that children were instructed on it from an early age. Many people practised these routines every day."

  I didn't know if that made humanity sound like a warrior species, but if Armela got that impression of us, it might not have been the worst outcome.

  "In working your muscles like this, you are setting a firm and stable base from which to grow the rest of your abilities. Keeping yourself limber and warm like this helps to reduce injury over the course of a day's work as well."

  I injected as much wisdom as I could into my words.

  She drank the information in and seemed encouraged to continue.

  "So how will you be teaching me? What techniques are we going to go over?"

  That was a hard question to answer without sounding like a charlatan.

  "Today will be spent putting you through your paces. I need to know what you know, see how you move and fight, and where your strongest proficiencies lie."

  How hard could it possibly be to learn how to fight in only a few bouts?

  "From there, I can determine the best direction to lead your growth."

  She paled a bit, but the determined twinkle never left her eyes.

  "Don't worry, I will not be bringing you to the point of death, nor will I be asking you to do anything beyond your limits."

  I made a point of looking her over, noting her bruising.

  "I know you're still recovering, but I think even with the condition you're in, it will be enough to grasp where you currently stand. That being said, I will try to push you right up to that limit, so brace yourself."

  She nodded and rose to her feet.

  "Alright, well then let's get the ass-kicking started."

  We moved to the centre of the dirt patch.

  "First, I'll have you come at me with just your fists. Your goal is to land a single solid hit. Whether that be through a punch or a kick doesn't matter."

  I assumed a defensive stance with my fists at a low-ready. Not a full boxers stance, but enough to make a quick reaction, if needed.

  "Come at me as though you were fighting for your life. I'm sure you can manage that."

  She smirked, though there was more than a hint of self-doubt mixed into the look.

  I sped up my perception of time and then layered pattern recognition systems on top of one another.

  Layer after layer after layer, maximising my senses to exaggerate and focus in on any abnormalities in her movements, tuning it to focus in on her anatomy, extraneous muscle contractions, un-optimized balance distribution, attention misdirection, and decision making.

  I would see if there was an inherent fighting 'style' that she had, or if it was closer to barroom brawling.

  She raised her fists and lowered her centre of gravity. They came to rest on either side of her head—a standard mid-guard for well-rounded applications. Nothing out of the ordinary yet.

  "I rarely tussle with my fists, more of a sword and board lady, really."

  With that, she rushed forward, hands still up in a defensive posture, through a low gait with short, quick strides to maximise her contact with the ground in case she needed to shift her momentum.

  She was accelerating faster than a normal person would based on her height and musculature. Granted, she was more heavily muscled than most people would be, even accounting for a margin of fifty percent increased strength; it would still be outside the bounds of her human counterpart.

  Either her wolfkin blood had greatly increased the density of her muscles, or the crystal augmented her capabilities.

  She closed the 2 metre gap between us in less than a second. Immediately opening with a left jab feint to draw my guard and then following it up with a right hook aimed at my kidney.

  I opted to brush her hook away with my left hand, sweeping it down and stepping around her right shoulder in order to let the momentum of her punch carry her a little past my right side.

  She stumbled for a single step before correcting into a roll and clearing the distance between us and then resetting.

  "How did you do that!?"

  She hadn't expected me to move as quickly as I had.

  "That's not something you need to concern yourself with; my capabilities are far outside your own, and you should have understood that coming into this."

  I shook out the hand I'd used to deflect her and resumed my original stance.

  "We're not here to figure out how I can do what I do; we're here to figure out how to make you do it too."

  I beckoned her on with my hand, taunting her to continue her onslaught.

  Chagrined, she focused back onto her guard and rushed in again, this time telegraphing a high-to-low left hook before dropping into a slide tackle, likely to either trip me, or pull me into a wrestling hold after putting me off balance.

  This really was barroom brawling.

  There was no form or stance beyond a simple boxers guard, no flow of movements into a linking set of attacks, and while she was attempting to open my guard or manoeuvre me into a vulnerable position, I agreed with her assessment that this was far from her strong suit.

  She simply rushed in and attempted to use her above-average speed and strength to overwhelm her opponents.

  I reached down and pulled her up by an ankle, redirecting the motion of her slide into a graceful arc over my head until she dangled in front of me, her linen dress flopping down over her head as she screamed and wriggled.

  "We're going to change focus now. I've learned what I needed from that exchange."

  Setting her down gently, I let her get up and straighten out her clothing before continuing.

  "You mentioned being more of a sword and board woman. I assume that's where most of your experience lies?"

  She huffed, clearly flustered from being handled like a child's doll.

  "That's right, I feel naked without a sword on my hip and a shield across my back. Been fighting so many years now they're like a part of me."

  Her words were defensive, but confident. This was good; confidence was what I wanted to encourage in her; starting things off by putting her on the back foot had been the right decision.

  It would only boost her resolve once she had a weapon in her hand.

  "Excellent, grab whatever weapons you feel most confident with and we'll go again."

  I gestured for her to take her time browsing.

  She walked over to the barrels of weapons along the edge of the camp. She sorted through them, obviously looking for something specific.

  Before long she let out a relieved sigh and pulled a sheathed short sword from the last barrel before picking up a battered iron-banded kite shield, strapping it to her arm effortlessly.

  "I knew they had my sword around her somewhere! Bastards split my shield when they raided my fucking caravan. One of those big Orcs caught it jussssst right with its club and damn near shattered my arm."

  She patted the replacement shield affectionately as she strode back into the sparring area with a sheathed sword in her hand.

  The sword was rather plain-looking, likely not terribly valuable.

  The pommel had been worn down with scratches and nicks, probably from striking armour like helmets or gauntlets. The leather, which had served as a grip, was dirty but well maintained.

  It had obviously been cleaned regularly to prevent too much filth from accumulating between the strips, though it had definitely seen its share of blood and wear.

  A square, pitted crossguard completed the overall look of a workhorse sword. cheap, reliable, and made to do one thing: Cut down the enemy.

  The sheath was simple, two cuts of hearty black leather cross-stitched together with thick brown leather thread. A brown leather belt had been bound to it with the same leather stitching and had a simple steel buckle dangling from the end.

  As she separated the sword from its sheath, there was a barely audible rasp. It had been well oiled and fit the sheath snugly.

  The broad side of the blade was pitted and scraped, but the edges gleamed with a mirrored shine. It was honed to a deadly sharpness, and there weren't more than three small nicks along its entirety.

  It was clearly an extremely well cared for blade, even through all the heavy use it had seen.

  The second she had cleared the blade from its sheath, her entire posture changed. She stood taller, her shoulders broadened, and her chest swelled ever so slightly with a regained sense of power.

  Control had been placed back into her hands, and it wasn't dissimilar to watching a flower rapidly bloom.

  This was a different woman than had stood before me moments before.

  She hefted the blade experimentally a few times, chopping at the air and inspecting the blade, finding small dissatisfaction in the nicks that had likely been caused in the fight for her life.

  There wasn't the faintest shake in her hand, no wobble in the trail the blade cut through the air, barely a wasted movement.

  It was like her body was retracing old, familiar steps to her favourite dance.

  Suddenly she turned her eyes to me, and it was like a weight settled over my shoulders.

  The hard, cold, desolate look of a killer burned into me as she shifted gracefully into a ready stance. Shield tucked up to her chest, covering her from her groin to her shoulders, the deadly blade now steadily resting firmly over the top of it, pointed directly into my eyes.

  She began her approach.