Then she lunged.
No warning, no instruction—just pure speed.
Soren barely managed to deflect the first strike, but the second hit his ribs, the third knocked his arm aside, the fourth slammed his wooden blade back into his own chest.
He staggered.
Valenna's voice flickered at the edge of consciousness—"Weight on the back foot. Brace—"
Too late.
Lysandra swept him to the ground again.
"Get up."
He did.
"Again."
And again.
And again.
Twenty exchanges. Thirty. Forty. Frost melted under their feet. Sweat stung his eyes. His breathing roughened. The wooden blade vibrated with every strike.
Lysandra didn't slow down.
Didn't soften.
Didn't praise.
She was dismantling him piece by piece.
And Soren forced himself to stay calm.
Every time she moved, Valenna whispered a single correction—not flowery, not philosophical. Just clean, mechanical adjustments:
"Shoulder down."
"Left foot half-step."
"No—don't chase her blade, intercept it."
