The sword cut the air with a sound like splitting silk, then thunked the post, vibrating Soren’s arms up to his ears.
He held the top of the cut too long; the follow-through was sluggish, a sluggishness that announced itself in the ache above his elbow. He stepped back, waited for the voice. The mory. The judgnt.
It arrived, imperious as ever: "No. That’s not a cut. That’s a tantrum, and not even a convincing one. Again."
Valenna’s critique was becoming predictable. Knife the intent, trowel it with insult, then wait for correction.
He reset his grip and tried again, arms loose, no tension in the triceps, exactly as she’d drilled.
The wooden blade whooshed overhead, a straight line, but it lacked sothingM maybe commitnt. Maybe permission to do real harm.
The blow landed, but not with the finality she’d have wanted.
"That is worse," Valenna sighed. "You’re not even pretending to disagree with now."
He could almost see her, pale-gloved hand pinching the bridge of her nose, the blue lamplight making a soft mockery of her silver hair. When she was alive, he imagined, this was the part that drove squires to drink.
She controlled the mory now, and the world buckled to accommodate her. Soren felt it before he saw it: the bone cold gravity that ant she was about to make him watch.
She let the mont transmit itself, clear and unyielding, into the root of his spine.
The mory laid itself over him, a new version, sharper than the last.
The yard vanished, replaced by a marble hall stripped of banners, just the hard echo of boots against polished floor.
Valenna stood at the center, a single opponent waiting in repose at the far end, a silhouette he’d seen in other dreams, always too distant to parse. She inclined her head, almost bored, then stepped forward.
Her own sword, much heavier than the one Soren carried, its length a blue shimr that ghosted every motion, rose from hip to crown, an unhurried ascent.
Her feet, if they moved, did so with such economy that the stone beneath might have mistaken itself for the only thing in motion.
The sword paused, perfectly vertical, suspended at the top of the draw as if it might stay there forever. The enemy shifted, anticipating a feint, a slash, an angle, a compromise.
Valenna gave no feint. She simply let the sword drop.
There was a small, final sound: not the violent percussion he’d expected, but the click of a decision already made.
A surgical line split the air and bisected the opponent’s defense. Even when the man tried to block it, nothing mattered; the sword’s trajectory did not deviate, not once.
The blow struck him first at the crown, then traveled, unstoppable, confident, down the axis of symtry, leaving the rest of the world to catch up.
She returned to guard, uninterested, as her opponent staggered, his hands unable to comprehend what had just happened.
Soren, within the mory, felt his own heart slow to a crawl, the certainty of the move written into his marrow for as long as he lived.
Valenna turned, unhurried, and he could see her eyes: not cold, but honest. "The Crown Cut ends the question. There is no next move."
The mory shattered. Soren stood again in the practice yard, the stub of wood heavy in his hand, the post an indifferent target.
He drew a deep breath, exhaled, and tried to manufacture the sa certainty. The overhead cut was clean, almost elegant, but at the critical mont his body rembered the implications and balked.
He saw it in the slack of his own shoulders. Even the post seed to flinch, as if embarrassed for him.
The echo in his skull was imdiate: "You think the enemy won’t notice? They’ll sll the fear in your hands before you even touch the hilt."
He moved to reset, but the drill master, gray and an through the morning frost, turned and called for sparring partners.
Soren found himself across from Tavren, who was grinning as if he’d just caught Soren cheating on a test.
"Want to try that tantrum on sothing that bleeds?" Tavren asked, then feinted to the outside, nearly catching Soren’s wrist.
He countered, falling back into mory, letting the overlay pilot his body. The pattern unfolded: a block, a twist, a quick step left.
Soren drew the blade up in the beginnings of the Crown Cut, but Tavren anticipated, dipped, and jabbed Soren’s ribs with the tip.
"See, that’s the problem," Tavren said, not breaking rhythm. "You’re not fighting anymore. You’re judging ."
The words lingered. Soren circled, all discomfort.
"I don’t need to fight you," Soren said, quietly. "I only need to see where you’ll end up."
Tavren barked a laugh. "That’s rich, gutter."
But on the next exchange, Tavren’s guard was high, and the mory, Valenna’s perfect, surgical mory, opened a gap at the midline.
Soren stepped in, inhaled, visualized the blue shimr and let the sword drop exactly as she’d shown.
There was no sound, not even tactile feedback, but Tavren’s mockery froze in place, eyes flicking to where Soren’s cut would have landed, neck to navel, an unbroken truth.
The yard stopped. Even the instructor looked over, chin raised in a rare show of interest.
A hush, and then the whisper: "That’s not how recruits fight. That’s basically how knights bury traitors."
Soren let the sword fall to his side, not triumphant, not even sure of what he’d done. Tavren, for once, said nothing.
The lesson pressed, subtle as frost under a door:
"Form is a kind of rcy, Soren. Use it only on those who deserve to die with their na intact."
He shivered, not from cold, but from recognition. The rest of the morning, he tried not to think about which side of the line he stood on, and whether anyone left in the yard was worthy of the cut.
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