Steel clashed against steel in a rhythmic dance that echoed across the training yard. The sun was high, casting a glaring light over the pale stone walls of the academy courtyard. Dust rose with every heavy step, sweat dripped from brows, and the sharp cries of effort were followed by gasps of defeat.
At the center of it all was Christina Percival, her chest rising and falling evenly as she lowered her sword, its blade humming slightly with residual force. The handle glowed faintly—a radiant blue hue that caught the sunlight and made it shimmer like crystal water. Around her lay three noble sons, all defeated, breathing hard on the ground as instructors dragged them aside to nurse their bruised pride.
Another student approached, his blade drawn, but Christina did not even flinch. Her eyes were sharp, trained, and far away at the same time—lost in the storm of her thoughts.
This sword again...
