The morning air was crisp and bright, sunlight filtering through the garden leaves, but I barely noticed it—my whole world narrowed down to the weight in my hands, the grip, the stance. I'd spent hours here, going over every lesson he'd ever given me, repeating the steps until my muscles ached, determined to turn every word he'd said into something real.
Feet shoulder‑width. Shoulders down. Don't lock your elbow. Feel the balance, not just the blade.
I muttered to myself under my breath, sweat beading at my temples. "He said to shift from the hips, not the arm… breathe out on the strike… there's a difference now. I can feel it. It's not just metal anymore—it's an extension."
I stepped forward, grounding myself, and stretched the sword out in a clean, sharp line—only for my blood to freeze.
