She clapped once—sharp as flint on steel. "That's enough. If you keep batting at him like kittens he'll drift off right here."
The little knot of knights eased back, good-natured groans filling the ring as swords were shouldered and aching wrists flexed. Dust clung to their greaves, and more than one man rubbed the budding bruise on his forearm with a sheepish grin. A trio of raw recruits whispered in a huddle, eyes darting between their toppled comrades and the Prince-Consort who looked as if he'd merely finished a stroll through the garden.
Mikhailis let out a long breath, rolling his shoulders until the joints popped. Limber… still limber, he noted, pleased that weeks of missed drills hadn't stolen the spring from his muscles. He balanced the ash blade across his palms, weighing the faint sting that thrummed through his fingers. It felt good—honest, uncomplicated, a reminder that not every battle happened behind a council table.
