“Again. On your own this time.”
We train for hours.
He’s a brutal teacher. Demanding. Critical. Every mistake earns a correction, every sloppy movement a sharp rebuke. But he’s also patient in ways I didn’t expect—willing to demonstrate the same technique a dozen times, adjusting his instructions based on what I struggle with.
“Your elbow. Drop it.”
I drop my elbow.
“Too far. You’ve left your ribs exposed.”
I adjust. He circles me, gaze clinical, cataloging every flaw.
“Better. Again.”
Again. And again. And again. The same movements repeated until they start to feel less foreign. Until my body begins to remember what my mind is still learning.
He shows me how to read an opponent’s weight distribution. How to anticipate an attack by watching the shoulders instead of the blade. How to use momentum instead of fighting it.
“A sword isn’t a hammer,” he says during one of my less graceful attempts. “You don’t bludgeon with it. You guide. You redirect. You let the blade do the work.”
“Easy for you to say. You’ve had four hundred years to practice.”
“And you’ll have significantly less if you don’t stop telegraphing your strikes.”
By midday, my arms are screaming. My legs are rubber. Sweat plasters my hair to my face, and I’m fairly certain I’ve developed blisters on both palms.
But I’m getting better.
“Again.” Drayke stands at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, face unreadable. “The full sequence.”
I plant my feet. Find my balance. Breathe.
The movements flow—not gracefully, not yet, but smoothly. Slash, parry, thrust. Turn, block, recover. Each position finds itself, muscle memory already forming, my body learning what my mind keeps fumbling.
When I finish, I’m breathing hard but standing. Steady. Solid.
Drayke’s expression hasn’t changed, but his posture has shifted. Less tension. More... pride, maybe. Approval.
“You’re a fast learner.”
Coming from him, it sounds like high praise.
“You’re a good teacher.” I lower the sword, rolling my aching shoulders. “When you stop growling.”
“I don’t growl.”
“You absolutely growl. It’s very intimidating. Very dragon-king-ish.”
That almost-smile again. The one that transforms his whole face, makes him look younger, less burdened.
“Dragon-king-ish.”
“It’s a word.”
“It’s not a word.”
“It is now. I just invented it.” I grin at him, high on endorphins and the unfamiliar sensation of competence. “Add it to your vocabulary, Guardian King.”
