The private court on the western grounds stayed empty most mornings. High stone walls kept the noise of the main yards out. Atlas arrived before first light with David already waiting, boots laced, practice blade in hand. No lectures.
Atlas showed a stance once, the exact placement of the feet, the angle of the shoulders, the way the breath dropped into the belly. David copied it. They repeated until the movement sat in the body without thought.
By the third morning David matched a full sequence that junior officers spent weeks learning. Atlas said nothing. He simply shifted to the next form—a cut that began from the hip and ended with the edge aligned to the line of the opponent's neck.
David took it in, adjusted the weight on his back foot by a fraction, and the cut came cleaner. Atlas watched the adjustment. It was not invention for its own sake. The boy's body already knew the more efficient path and only needed the pressure of repetition to surface it.
