They stood in the training ground—the same as yesterday—but the wooden dummies had vanished. Many faces showed exhaustion from the previous day. Milla was the exception. Her vitality radiated so intensely that it puzzled even Alan. This was the same Milla who had barely managed to drag herself home yesterday.
A long rack of weapons now dominated the space. Steel glinted coldly under the sun. Heads turned at the sharp sound of heels striking the ground. A woman emerged from the shadows.
"Silence!" Her voice cut through the air sharper than any blade on the rack.
Ms. Silvermine's silver hair flowed darker than Nora's pale strands. It gleamed like a moonlit river. Her figure was striking—hips flared beneath a cinched waist, and breasts straining against the emerald fabric in a way that even outshone Ms. Wellform's renowned proportions. Yet, her face betrayed no trace of age, smooth as the obsidian dagger resting on the weapon rack. Even Milla swallowed hard. Behind her, a chorus of gulps rose from the boys as their eyes drank what their hands couldn't touch.
A golden emblem pulsed faintly over her left breast—its markings as mysterious as Mr. FluGer's and Ms. Wellform's.
"This is weapon combat class," she said, her voice sharp and brittle. She rolled her shoulders. Her breasts bounced. "I am Ms. Silvermine. The substitute should have taught you the basics of weaponry. Today, we fight!"
A voice called from the back. "If you're our real instructor, why did you skip the last two weeks?"
Ms. Silvermine's lips curled as she examined her nails. "Let's just say I'd rather clean serpent vomit than explain knife anatomy to brats." Her chuckle rasped like sandpaper. She gestured to the weapon racks. "Partner up. Arm yourselves. The goal: neutralize your opponent."
A murmur spread through the class. Students exchanged nervous glances, fabric rustling.
"Your organs will stay inside," she added, grinning. "Bones and dignity? No promises."
One by one, students chose their weapons. Some moved confidently, others hesitated, and a few grabbed whatever caught their eye first. Alan tested the balance of a one-handed sword and nodded. Emma ran her thumb along twin daggers before securing them at her hips. Milla grabbed the bulkiest weapon—a warhammer—and braced herself to lift it.
A doubtful voice broke the clatter. "Why use blades when we have magic?"
SLING. WHOOSH. BOOM!
Ms. Silvermine answered with her sword, parting the ancient pines and shattering part of the school's stone boundary. Splinters and rubble steamed in the sunlight.
"Show me that with incantations," she said, sliding her sword back. "Then you can leave."
Silence. CLATTER!
The students scattered to find a sparring partner.
"Em—" Alan began, but Milla yanked Emma behind her. She glared at him and waved dismissively. "Shoo. Shoo."
Alan heaved a sigh and scanned the field.
"You!" Sylas pointed at him. "I will take pity on you! My axes are your foes—wahahahaha!"
A grin stretched too wide for his face. The one-pointer, he thought. I'll make him pay for what she did yesterday.
"Hrrrmph-grrrgh!" His laughter bubbled thickly, like stew boiling over a fire.
Finding no alternatives, Alan raised his sword. "Alan," he said simply. "This is my sword."
—
The students swung their weapons awkwardly at Ms. Silvermine's command. Milla trembled under the weight of her warhammer.
"Maybe try something lighter?" Emma suggested, eyeing Milla's shaking arms.
Milla stomped, lifting the hammer with a ground-shaking heave. The weapon whistled downward. Emma sidestepped—THUD!—the impact cratered the ground.
"AGAIN!" Milla crowed, her dirt-streaked face alight with battlelust as she wrenched her hammer free.
Emma gripped her daggers. Her legs bent, back arched, feet anchored. Sunlight glinted on the curved blades. She watched Milla's shoulders twitch—the telltale sign of another swing.
WHOOSH!
Milla's war cry preceded the swing. Emma slipped sideways, her daggers biting into the exposed ribcage. KRAANG! Milla pulled the hammer in, shielding herself from the daggers' fangs.
"RAAAAHH!" She roared. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
They fell into a gritty rhythm. Emma weaved between hammer strikes like a thread through a needle's eye. Milla pivoted, using the hammer's weight to her advantage. Steel clashed where Emma's parries failed, her arms trembling with each blocked blow.
Across from the spirited duel, a far more vicious clash unfolded between Nora and Gerral. As the vice-captain's son, Gerral wouldn't settle for just any challenger—only Nora's longsword merited his trident. Equally, her blade rose to meet his challenge.
They clashed. Fast, relentless strikes—a brutal concert resonating across the training ground.
Clang-clang-clang! Ksssh-klink-kraang! Clang-clang-clang!
Every strike carried bone-jarring force behind the calculated movement—less a spar than a raw display of barely leashed violence.
Spectators abandoned their own drills to watch the display of fury. Where others exchanged measured blows, these two fought like predators battling for dominance.
Meanwhile, Sylas charged at Alan, his face crimson. "Stand still and let me hit you!" he shouted, hurling an axe. Thunk! It nailed a rack.
Alan danced with ease, parrying Sylas's second axe into the dirt. Sylas skidded, flailing for balance. His curses flew faster than his blades. Each throw missed Alan by a hair.
"Fight me, you craven wretch! Stop hiding behind your fancy footwork!"
"I'll split you like the worthless log you are!"
"Coward…! Gutless worm…! Wimp…!"
Sylas's bellowed threats grew shriller with each failure. He recalled his axes with a flick, like two trained hounds swirling to his hands, only to lose them again in vain.
Laughter rippled as Alan feigned horror when an axe grazed his sleeve. He clutched his chest dramatically, then winked. Sylas tripped over his own feet, landing in a heap of dust.
Where other duels drew silence, this one brought laughter. Even Ms. Silvermine smirked as she watched the spectacle unfold.
—
The setting sun stretched shadows over the field. Students slumped, drained, and weary. Milla sprawled on the dirt, her hammer doubling as Emma's crude bench. Emma gulped air, her hands trembling. Gerral and Nora leaned on their weapons, the blades sunk deep into the soil. Sylas sat in a sweat-soaked puddle, his axes creaking under his grip. Only Alan stood tall, his breath steady as his eyes moved across the field, taking in the wreckage.
Quiet murmurs floated between exhausted breaths. Bodies slowed, finally surrendering to their limits. The training ground felt heavy, its silence louder than any spell.
Right on schedule, Joe's bulk emerged from the dusk. Hefting Milla across one shoulder and Emma over the other, he stepped beside Alan. Their fading voices carried snippets of sparring critiques and supper plans into the violet-hued evening.