Atrius's eyebrow lifted.
"Good. That stance isn't Academy. Where did you—"
He cut himself off. "Doesn't matter. Use it."
Soren shifted his weight. The sword hung loosely in his hand, but the looseness was deceptive — it was the kind that could tighten into violence in half a heartbeat.
Valenna murmured, soft and approving.
Yes. This is yours, not theirs.
Atrius circled him, appraising like a man inspecting a dangerous animal that had suddenly decided to listen to commands.
"Now," Atrius said, "bend it."
Soren moved.
Not the Estrix lunge, not any Academy form. His footwork shortened, steps almost silent on the mat. A half pivot, a cut that traveled only eight inches but carried all its power inside those eight. Atrius raised a forearm to block the angle—barely in time.
Metal kissed leather.
Atrius hissed. "Again."
Soren repeated it, tighter.
Then again — faster.
