The training yard at Silverwood Spire was a masterpiece of beauty and functionality. It was here, under Elara's watchful gaze, that Nihil's personal hell began. He held an Elven practice sword, which felt foreign and awkward in his hands. Across from him, Princess Lyraelle stood ready, her twin swords sheathed.
"Start with the basics," Lyraelle said sharply. "Stance. Feel your center of gravity."
Nihil tried to mimic her position. In his mind, data from `Void Memory` swirled—diagrams of a hundred perfect stances. But as he attempted to translate them into action, his body felt like a stiff wooden puppet.
Lyraelle sighed. She stepped forward and, without hesitation, kicked the back of Nihil's knee. "Lower." Then she pressed on his back. "Straighten."
"Again," she commanded. "Now, basic swing. Power comes from the ground."
