The practice sword cracked against wood with a sound like breaking bones.
"No, no, NO!" Sirah grabbed the young darian's wrist, adjusting his grip with her remaining hand. "You're holding it like a club. It's a sword, not your dick."
The boy, who couldn't be more than fourteen summers, blushed furiously. Around them, other young warriors snickered.
"Sorry, Blood Sister."
"Don't apologize. Just do better."
She stepped back, watching him run through the basic forms again. Better. Not good, but better.
[Why am I even bothering?]
Teaching had never been her thing. That was for the old warriors, the ones missing too many pieces to fight properly. But here she was, showing whelps which end of the sword went into the enemy.
"—gonna bleed him slow," someone was saying near the prisoner posts. "Make it last."
"Nah, quick and clean. Save the energy for important things."
"Since when is revenge not important?"
