"Rain, don't move."
I was already moving.
Steel rang an inch from my face as Kai's katana slid past where my neck had been a second earlier. I twisted on instinct, boots scraping stone, and barely managed to catch the follow-up with the flat of my blade.
"What did I just say?" Liam shouted.
"That wasn't a suggestion!" Arion yelled right after him.
"It absolutely was," Kai said calmly, stepping back before I could counter. "He heard it."
"I told you not to start yet!" Liraeth snapped.
"No one said stop," Seraphyne replied from somewhere to my left, voice perfectly level. "That's on you."
I exhaled through my nose and disengaged, lowering my sword just enough to signal I wasn't attacking—not that it stopped anyone from circling like we hadn't already begun.
We hadn't technically begun.
Which was the problem.
The training yard was already half torn up, dust rising in thin clouds from rapid footwork, weapons ringing as people adjusted grips or tested edges against air. Someone—probably Arion—had dragged an extra weapons rack closer to the center, turning the space tighter than usual.
It was barely morning.
That, too, was suspicious.
"I came here to stretch," I said, pivoting as Kazen's arrow thunked into the ground where my foot had been. "Not die."
"You stretch after dodging," Kazen replied, already nocking another.
"That explains so much," I muttered.
"No shields yet," Liraeth said firmly, planting her foot down hard enough to be heard. "This is still warm-up."
"I am very warm," Arion said. "I'm sweating."
"That's because you ran in first," Aelira said without looking at him, rolling her wrist once as she adjusted the angle of her rapier. "Again."
"Because you hesitated."
"Because you're loud."
Seraphyne finally stepped closer, eyes moving across all of us like she was counting pieces on a board rather than teammates about to pile on.
"Light sparring," she said. "No finishing blows."
"No promises," Arion replied immediately.
She looked at him.
He raised his hands. "—Fine. Intentional finishing blows."
I sighed and raised my sword again.
That did it.
Kai lunged without warning—not fast-fast, but precise-fast, the kind that punished hesitation rather than speed. I took a half-step back instead of meeting it head-on, slid inside his reach, and tapped his wrist with the spine of my blade.
He clicked his tongue and disengaged.
"Still doing that," he said.
"You keep giving it to me," I replied.
That was enough for Arion to charge, axe coming around in a wide, enthusiastic arc that forced me to duck and roll rather than block outright. Dirt sprayed up into my cloak as I came up on one knee, blade already moving to intercept Liam, who had somehow closed distance without anyone noticing.
That was his worst habit.
We traded two quick blows—controlled, clean—before I pivoted away again, narrowly missing Kazen's next arrow by instinct alone.
"You're not allowed to coordinate silently," Arion complained.
"You're not allowed to complain mid-swing," Liraeth shot back.
Aelira moved.
She always chose the moment when attention thinned. Her rapier flicked in low, almost lazy, aiming for my flank where my guard had opened without me realizing it.
I caught it just in time, steel sliding along steel with a thin shriek.
She frowned.
"Noted," she said.
Seraphyne hadn't struck yet.
That made my shoulders tense more than the rest combined.
She shifted when Kai reengaged, not to attack me, but to adjust him, forcing his angle wider so Liraeth could step forward with her shield and compress space from the front.
I recognized the setup a split second too late.
"Clever," I muttered.
"Obvious," she replied, and finally lunged.
I dropped instead of retreating, letting her daggers pass over me, then rolled through the opening before Liraeth's shield could close the gap entirely. My blade flicked up, tapping Arion's axe shaft and redirecting it just enough that he stumbled.
He laughed as he went down.
"That counts as teamwork!"
"That counts as falling," Aelira corrected.
The clash didn't escalate—it dissolved.
Not cleanly. Not neatly.
Just… slowed. Blades lowered an inch at a time. Someone disengaged first, then someone else, until suddenly everyone was breathing harder and no one was actively attacking.
Kai rested his katana on his shoulder. "Alright. He's warmed."
"That was supposed to be our warm-up," Liam said.
"You're welcome," I replied, wiping sweat from my jaw.
Arion rolled onto his back dramatically. "I didn't even get a solid hit."
"You never do," Kazen said.
"That's malicious."
"Accurate."
Someone laughed. Then someone else. The tension never snapped—it just thinned, turning into noise instead of pressure. Weapons were sheathed, returned, leaned against walls. Liraeth sat down where she stood, shield resting upright as if it weighed nothing.
I sat on the low stone edge bordering the yard and let my breathing settle.
A book hit my chest.
I caught it on instinct.
"Study," Liam said. "Before you try to escape."
"I was not going to escape."
Kai smirked. "He was going to stand up and accidentally leave."
"I do not—"
"You do," Seraphyne said calmly, crouching nearby. "Every time."
I opened the book to the middle without really reading yet.
Diagrams. Angles. Outdated grip instructions.
"This author assumes too much extension," I said aloud.
Aelira leaned over my shoulder slightly. "That's why his disciples lost fingers."
"Source?"
"Footnotes."
Kai squinted at the page. "That annotation is illegible."
"That's because you're holding it upside down."
"…I don't like that you noticed."
Arion scooted closer. "Explain the weird arrow thing again."
"That's not an arrow," Kazen said flatly.
"It flies."
"Everything flies if you throw it badly."
The discussion layered itself organically—one voice over another, corrections interrupting explanations, diagrams being redrawn in the dust with fingertips or sword tips. Someone stood up to demonstrate, immediately knocked over a chair, and blamed the author.
I barely noticed when Seraphyne handed me water.
I took it without thinking.
No one commented.
Good.
The morning kept moving, unbothered by the fact that we'd already violated three training guidelines and at least one written schedule. None of us seemed inclined to stop—especially once the arguing turned practical and the diagrams became movement.
The first chair went down because Arion gestured too widely.
The second because Kai kicked it out of the way without looking.
The third went down because it was in Liraeth's path and she refused to go around it on principle.
At that point, the training yard stopped pretending it was a controlled environment.
"Okay," Liam said slowly, hands on his hips, staring at the disaster radius we were actively expanding. "New rule."
"No new rules," Arion replied instantly. "That's how the last one happened."
"That is exactly why we need a new one."
I closed the book partway, eyes still scanning a diagram as someone bumped into my shoulder. "If we're testing grip transitions, we shouldn't be standing this close anyway."
Seraphyne glanced at me. "You say that like it'll stop anyone."
She was right.
Kai was already stepping forward again, katana loose in his grip, eyes narrowed—not in irritation, but focus. That was his version of asking permission.
I closed the book completely and stood.
That was the real permission.
"No full-speed," Liraeth warned, getting back to her feet. "We're testing transitions, not endurance."
"You're always testing endurance," Arion said.
"That's because you keep failing it."
He gasped. "Cruel."
We formed a loose circle again, less formal than before, more aware of each other's spacing. This time, instead of everyone rushing in at once, they came in waves.
Kai first.
Not a lunge—he stepped inside my range deliberately, blade angled low, testing whether I'd overcorrect after the earlier advice. I didn't. I adjusted my wrist just enough to redirect and let his momentum carry him past me instead of breaking contact.
He clicked his tongue again.
"I felt that," he muttered.
"Good."
Arion followed immediately, axe held higher than before, less swing and more pressure. I met it halfway this time, letting the weight sink into my arms before rolling it aside and stepping through the opening.
He grinned like he'd been waiting for it.
"That one was closer."
"Still not enough," Aelira said, circling.
She came in next, rapier darting forward in short, precise probes rather than a real strike. I parried once, twice, then intentionally missed the third to test my recovery.
She didn't hesitate.
The tip tapped my ribs.
"Dead," she said calmly.
"Educational," I replied.
"Extremely."
Kazen's arrow followed—not aimed at me, but just to my side, forcing me to shift my footing as Liraeth advanced with shield raised. She didn't charge. She compressed space steadily, foot by foot, shield edge angled to deny lateral movement.
I found myself forced back faster than expected.
"Your spacing changed," she said. "You're thinking too much."
"I'm always thinking," I replied, slipping sideways just before the shield could lock me.
"That's not a defense."
Seraphyne chose that moment to step in.
She didn't attack directly. She mirrored my movement instead, matching my pace, daggers loose but uncommitted. It was unsettling—like fighting someone who knew where you intended to be rather than where you were.
"You've been shifting your weight earlier," she said quietly. "Did you notice?"
I hadn't.
That bothered me.
I adjusted instinctively—and immediately opened my guard.
Her dagger tapped my shoulder.
"Dead," she said gently.
Arion clapped. "Wow. Everyone's killing you today."
"I'm letting them," I replied.
"Coward."
We reset—not because anyone called it, but because someone laughed, and the tension loosened enough to slide sideways instead of forward.
Kai shook his wrist. "Alright. Again. But this time, non-dominant grip."
Liam frowned. "That's a terrible idea."
"Which makes it valuable," Kai countered.
Aelira considered it. "If you dislocate something, I'm not fixing it."
"Agreed," Liraeth said.
I took the sword in my left hand.
The weight felt wrong immediately.
"This is already bad," Arion said happily.
"Quiet," I replied.
Kai came in fast this time, taking advantage of my delayed reactions. I barely managed to parry, the shock of impact rattling up my arm in a way that made me wince.
"That's what the text warned about," Liam pointed out.
"And you ignored it," Aelira added.
I adjusted my stance, tried again.
Better. Still clumsy.
Kazen loosed an arrow deliberately wide to force movement without punishing the mistake too hard, and I found myself compensating by rotating my hips more than usual.
"That's excessive," Seraphyne said.
"I know."
"Then stop."
"I'm trying."
The second attempt ended with me stepping too far forward and nearly colliding with Liraeth's shield.
She braced automatically.
"Not terrible," she said. "Still wrong."
Third attempt.
Still wrong, but less.
Fourth attempt.
Arion tripped over the fallen chair and ruined everyone's focus.
"I regret nothing!" he shouted from the ground.
Laughter broke out again—real laughter this time, sharp enough to sting but warm enough to stay. Someone pulled Arion to his feet. Someone else kicked the chair aside finally.
The experiment ended not in success, but in acceptance.
Kai sheathed his blade. "Yeah, that's enough of that."
"I feel like I learned something," Liam said.
"You learned what not to do," Arion said.
"Which is still learning."
We collapsed back toward the edges of the yard without ceremony, weapons resting wherever they fell. I sat down again, left arm sore in a way that promised to complain later.
Someone shoved the book back into my hands.
"This part," Aelira said, pointing. "About delayed engagement."
I read it this time. Slowly.
"…It assumes the opponent won't adapt," I said.
"Everyone adapts," Seraphyne replied. "Except you. You refine."
I glanced at her.
She wasn't smiling.
She also wasn't wrong.
The yard buzzed with conversation again—arguments branching, examples overlapping, someone retelling a moment from five minutes ago with exaggerated heroics. I listened without trying to control it, letting the noise exist without steering it.
For once, no one needed orders.
And that, more than anything, felt strange—in a good way.
The bells still hadn't rung.
No instructor was calling us back.
No voice was cutting in to tell us what came next.
Which meant we had time.
So instead of moving, we stayed. Someone dragged a book closer. Someone else flipped it open without asking. What started as idle curiosity turned into questions, then arguments, then raised voices over diagrams no one wanted to accept at face value.
It was still technically open in my hands, pages bending slightly under my grip, but no one was reading it in order anymore. Diagrams were skipped. Footnotes were argued out of sequence. Someone—Arion—had flipped three pages ahead and was now confidently explaining something that no one else had agreed to yet.
"This part clearly says," he began.
"It clearly does not," Aelira interrupted.
Liam leaned over. "You're upside down again."
Arion looked down. Paused. Rotated the book. "Okay, now it clearly says—"
"I don't think 'clearly' means what you think it means," Seraphyne said.
Kai, who had been unusually quiet for a full thirty seconds, crouched down and tapped one of the earlier diagrams etched into the dirt with the tip of his blade. "You're all missing the point."
Everyone turned to him.
That alone was suspicious.
"The problem isn't the transition," he continued. "It's the assumption behind the transition. The text assumes momentum carries cleanly forward."
"It doesn't," Liraeth said immediately.
"Exactly." He nodded. "Because weight resists first."
I frowned slightly. "That contradicts section four."
"It corrects it," Aelira said. "Section four was written by someone who never fought shielded opponents."
Liraeth lifted her shield an inch. "That tracks."
Someone snorted. Someone else laughed.
Arion raised his hand. "I propose a demonstration."
"No," Liam said instantly.
"I propose a controlled demonstration."
"No," Aelira repeated.
"I volunteer Rain."
I looked up. "You absolutely do not."
Too late.
Kai had already stepped back and cleared space with a casual kick of his foot, scattering dirt and chalk lines. "Show us, then."
"You're enabling him," I said.
"Yes," Kai replied. "Intentionally."
Arion beamed.
"Alright," he said, standing in the cleared circle and hefting his axe. "The theory states that during a blade transition—"
"Stop," Aelira said. "That's not how you explain theory."
He ignored her. "—the follow-through assumes compliance. Which is dumb. So instead, you do this."
He swung.
Not at me—thankfully—but at the air, attempting a complicated rotation into a hooking motion that looked impressive for half a second and then immediately fell apart when his footing slipped.
He spun.
Missed the imaginary target.
And stumbled straight into Liam.
They both went down.
Hard.
Silence.
Then Liraeth said, very calmly, "Demonstration complete."
The yard exploded with laughter.
Arion lay flat on his back, staring at the sky. "I stand by my point."
"You didn't stand at all," Liam said, groaning as he sat up.
Seraphyne crouched near them, checking quickly for injuries out of habit more than concern. "What was your point, exactly?"
"That momentum lies," Arion said.
"That is not a lesson," Aelira replied.
Kai tilted his head, eyes narrowed—not amused, but interested. "But the failure was informative."
Arion pointed at him. "See? He gets it."
"No," I said, already standing. "He's being polite."
I stepped into the open space without really deciding to. The group quieted—not expectant, exactly, but attentive in the way they always were when something shifted naturally rather than being announced.
I didn't raise my sword.
I just adjusted my stance.
"The issue isn't that momentum lies," I said. "It's that people trust it to finish their thinking."
I mimed Arion's earlier movement slowly this time—not a swing, just the beginning of it—then stopped mid-rotation.
"Right here," I continued. "This is where the assumption happens."
I changed direction instead, a small step, a re-angle of my shoulder.
"If you commit," I added, "you lose choice."
I let the motion settle.
No flourish. No conclusion.
Just stillness.
Aelira blinked once. "That was… irritatingly clear."
Kai stared at the space where I'd moved. "…You didn't finish it."
"I didn't need to."
"That's worse," he said.
Liraeth nodded slowly. "That works against shields."
"And blades," Seraphyne added quietly.
Arion sat up, rubbing his head. "I hate that you fixed my explanation."
"You never had one," Liam said.
The conversation picked up again immediately, louder now—questions firing, counterpoints stacking, someone trying to replicate the movement and failing in an entirely new way.
Kazen attempted it next.
He was better than Arion. Worse than me. Predictable enough that Aelira tapped him lightly on the wrist halfway through.
"Dead," she said.
"That was mean."
"That was fair."
I stepped back out of the space and let them argue, letting the noise wash over me instead of organizing it. My arm still ached from earlier. Left hand worse than right.
Seraphyne noticed.
She didn't comment. Just handed me another towel and nudged my elbow slightly to remind me to loosen it instead of holding tension.
I adjusted automatically.
"See?" Arion said, pointing. "He listens."
"To correct input," I said again.
"That excuse is going to wear thin," Kai muttered.
The bell still hadn't rung.
Which meant no one was forcing us back into structure yet.
Someone dragged another book over—thicker, older, margins full of handwritten notes from students long gone. Someone else spilled chalk again. Someone argued about whether footwork mattered more than grip.
It didn't feel like studying.
It felt like sharpening edges against each other without worrying about who cut deeper.
Somehow, without anyone deciding it, the yard settled into a steady rhythm—learning bleeding into laughter, failure turning into joke, then into insight. There wasn't a center to it anymore. No one calling things out, no one keeping time.
That was why the bell didn't register at first.
Lionhearth rang constantly—different tones layered into daily life until most of them blurred together. Training, meals, curfew warnings. This one rang once, low and distant, then again.
Only when it rang a third time did someone finally pause.
"…Was that ours?" Arion asked.
Liraeth checked the sun by reflex, even though the walls blocked most of it. "That was the transition bell."
Kai frowned slightly. "Already?"
"Yes," Liam said. "Time continues to move forward no matter how much you resist it."
"That feels targeted."
We didn't scramble. No one rushed to pack up or snapped to attention. We'd already drifted into that slow, in-between state where everyone was tired enough to stop proving things but awake enough not to stop talking.
Aelira closed one of the books with care, tapping the spine twice like it might retaliate otherwise. "If we're late again, Instructor Aldred is going to stare at us."
"He always stares," Arion said. "That's his thing."
"He stares harder when we're late," she replied.
Kazen retrieved the last of his arrows from the dirt, lining them up neatly before returning them to the quiver. "We could still make it if we walk."
"Walk?" Arion repeated, incredulous. "In this state?"
"I'm already walking," Seraphyne said, slinging her jacket over her shoulder.
She was right.
Despite all the noise, the arguing, the half-failed experiments and full-on collapses, people were already moving—slowly, casually, in the direction of the corridors leading back inside. Someone nudged a fallen chair upright with their foot. Someone else scooped up chalk without being asked. The yard untangled itself the way it always did, like none of what happened there needed to be preserved exactly as it was.
I sheathed my sword and rolled my shoulders, feeling the dull ache settle in places it would probably complain about tomorrow.
"Rematch?" Arion asked me, already grinning.
"You lost," I said.
"That doesn't disqualify me."
"It should."
Kai walked past us, hands tucked into the folds of his uniform. "He's going to win again."
"Statistically," Kazen added.
"See?" Arion said. "You all encourage this."
Liam laughed quietly. "You keep showing up."
"That's because it's fun."
That made me pause.
Not because it was profound, or surprising—but because it was true.
We filed into the corridor in no particular order, still talking over one another. The stone walls swallowed the sound differently than the open yard had, muting it into echoes that overlapped just enough to blur individual conversations together.
Someone was still arguing about wrist alignment. Someone else was reenacting their fall with dramatic embellishment. Someone called out "Dead" at nothing in particular, earning a shove.
Seraphyne walked at my side without comment.
"You didn't correct anyone at the end," she said after a moment.
"I didn't need to."
She glanced at me. "That's different from earlier."
"Earlier, I felt like I had to."
"…And now?"
I thought about it for half a step.
"Now they were figuring it out themselves."
She nodded once. "Good."
That was it. No lingering look. No smile she was aware of. Just an observation made and accepted.
We reached the split where everyone would normally branch off toward their next obligations. For a second, no one moved, like the group itself hadn't decided whether to break apart yet.
Arion stretched his arms over his head. "Same tomorrow?"
Kai answered without hesitation. "Earlier."
Liraeth sighed. "More structure."
Aelira added, "Less chairs."
Kazen said nothing, which meant he'd be there.
I shrugged. "If no one breaks anything important."
Arion grinned. "No promises."
They peeled off gradually—not all at once, not ceremonially. One left to the right, two to the left, someone doubling back because they forgot something. The corridor slowly reclaimed its usual quiet, boots receding until there were only a handful of footsteps left.
I stopped near one of the support pillars, adjusting my glove.
Seraphyne stopped too.
"You weren't distracted today," she said.
"I was."
"Not unfocused."
I considered that.
"…Maybe."
She didn't push it.
Instead, she turned to leave, then paused just long enough to add, "You're learning faster than you think."
Then she was gone, footsteps fading into the stone like everyone else's had.
I stood there for a second longer, listening to Lionhearth settle back into itself—the distant clang of another training yard, voices echoing faintly from above, the ever-present reminder that this place never really stopped sharpening people.
Today hadn't been rest.
It hadn't been pressure, either.
It had been friction—the kind you chose.
I adjusted my grip on the strap of my sword and headed after the others, already bracing for whatever tomorrow decided to throw at us.