I bent my knees, my right foot sliding forward. I held my left hand, palm out, in a defensive position, with the sword's hilt grasped firmly in my right.
Breathe, Anna. Just breathe.
The blood was trickling down my hand, but I didn’t move. Calm, control, focus. Sense everything from your pulse to the direction of the wind.
My pulse slowed to a reasonable pace, but it was nearly impossible to maintain. Something within me was continually stirring—a stinging resentment I could not shake off.
Frustrated, I slashed the blade through the air. I moved through each stance with excessive force, lacking the grace I once had.
Calm. Control. Focus.
No, I didn’t have any of those right now.
Only resentment.
I spun, my movements fast and nearly reckless, swiping the blade as I went.
But my blade was stopped in a startling clash of steel.
My heart jumped as I desperately gasped for breath.
Before me was the man who’d taught me everything I knew. It’d been exactly one year since I’d laid eyes on him.
“Derrick,” I said.
His blade hid most of his face along with his oddly youthful appearance, but his piercing blue eyes watched me intently. His only response was forcefully arcing his blade across mine,driving it downward so fast he was able to thrust his own at me with lightning speed.
I barely blocked it.
Sparks flew, and I barely jumped in time, skidding across the stone tiles. My fingertips burned as they dragged across the gritty surface, trying to steady my retreat. My breathing was erratic, and the very real threat of his blade was flooding me with panic.
“You have gotten slow,” he said, his voice steady and even.
I grunted while tightening my grasp on my blade. His stoic demeanor was somehow like an antidote to my anxiety—I wanted to get some reaction from him, even if I had to draw blood.
I took the sword in both hands and rushed forward, letting out a frustrated growl. Derrick didn’t move, and I faltered, my blade lowering at the last second before he smacked it out of my hands.
My jaw slacked, and I stared up at him. His usual shoulder-length black hair was shorter, above the ears, but still long enough to become tousled in the wind. It made him look like he was in his late twenties, even though I knew he was older than that, but he had never seemed to look older to me, even after all these years that I knew him.
“Never let your weapon be taken,” he said.
I stood there, trying to catch my breath.
I wanted to yell, cry, hug him, and punch him all at the same time.
“It’s been a year,” I whispered.
I could have sworn I saw the tension in his face, but it was gone before I was sure. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted him to feel. Guilt? Relief that I wasn’t hitting him? Relief that I was happy to see him?
Was I? Was I happy to see him?
My eyes stung as I looked away. I went to retrieve my sword, but Derrick’s voice stopped me.
“Happy birthday, Anna,” he said.
Derrick moved past me, and I spun around, stumbling.
His outstretched hand steadied me, his expression curious.
