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"No manifestation."

"Of course."

"No secondary blade."

I stare. "What am I supposed to fight with?"

Professor Vayne hands me a short sword. Left-handed. I look at it. Then him. "You hate me."

"Not particularly."

"That somehow makes it worse."

Across the training hall, Rhyven is reviewing the morning assessment board. He looks annoyingly awake. Of course. Dark uniform. Sleeves rolled. Hair already slightly disordered despite the fact that it's barely dawn. He slept. Probably. Maybe. I look away before my brain starts investigating that too.

The whistle sounds. My opponent attacks. I block.

Badly. The sword vibrates through my left wrist.

I nearly drop it. "Again." Rhyven.

I turn. "That wasn't even over."

"It was."

"I still had the weapon."

"Barely." My opponent looks between us. Poor man.

"Reset." Rhyven says. We reset.

Second attempt. Better. Still terrible. My left side understands the concept of fighting. It simply objects to participating. I parry high. Too wide. My opponent slips inside. Blade to ribs. "Dead." Rhyven says.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"No, I thought the sword touching my organs was encouraging." His mouth twitches.

"Again."

Third attempt. Fourth. Fifth. Every time, Rhyven finds something. Foot position. Grip. Shoulder alignment. My recovery. My left wrist turning inward. My tendency to compensate with my right side even though it's strapped down. By the eighth round, I am furious. By the tenth, I'm better. Unfortunately, these things appear connected.

My opponent comes in low. I block left. He changes angle. I don't try to match his strength. I step inside. Use the hilt. Drive it into his forearm. His grip loosens. My blade turns. His drops. Silence. I look toward Rhyven. "Well?"

"Slow."

I stare. "I disarmed him."

"Eventually."

"How fast would you like me to become ambidextrous?"

Rhyven glances toward the clock. "By Friday."

I laugh once. "You're insane."

"No."