By the time the sun dipped low enough to paint the training grounds in amber light, my arms were shaking.
Sigurd stood across from me, tiny paws clasped behind his back, chest puffed out like he hadn't just spent the last hour trying to turn me into mulch.
"So," he said, tone dangerously casual, "I hear you trained with your academy swordsmanship professor this morning."
I froze mid-stretch. Slowly, I looked at him. "How did you—"
He gasped loudly. "You did cheat on me."
"I didn't cheat," I protested. "It was class. Mandatory. You know—education?"
Sigurd's button eyes narrowed. "Education?" he scoffed. "You mean flirting with inferior instruction?"
Jerry lifted his head from where he'd been coiled on a rock. "Wow. Someone's insecure."
Sigurd snapped his head toward him. "I am not insecure. I am offended. Deeply."
Before I could respond, mana flared.
Sigurd vanished.
"WAIT—" I shouted.
Too late.
A plush blur slammed toward me from the left. I barely threw myself backward as a mana-charged paw sliced through the space where my head had been. The air cracked.
I rolled, came up on one knee, barely managed to raise my sword—
Another attack came from above.
I ducked, heart hammering, the ground splintering where I'd just been standing. Sigurd reappeared a few steps away, already mid-motion, his movements sharp and merciless.
"Explain," he barked, launching forward again.
"I wasn't—" I blocked, barely. "—cheating!"
He swept low. I jumped.
"You trained with another swordsman!"
Clang.
My arms screamed as I parried. The impact rattled my bones.
"He's my professor!"
"That makes it worse!"
I stumbled back, barely keeping my footing as Sigurd pressed the attack. His small stature meant nothing—every strike carried intent, precision, and a humiliating amount of power. I dodged, twisted, redirected, my breath coming out in harsh bursts.
This was different.
Harder.
Faster.
I could feel it—the way my body moved more naturally now, the way mana flowed more smoothly through my limbs. My stance adjusted instinctively. My grip corrected itself.
Sigurd noticed.
He skidded to a stop mid-attack, staring at me.
"…Huh."
I took the chance to gulp air. "What?"
He sniffed. "Your advancement is… impressive."
I blinked. Praise? From Sigurd?
He continued, clearly begrudgingly, "Not many reach tier three swordsmanship this quickly. Especially not without formal training."
My chest warmed despite myself. "So you're saying I'm good?"
"No," he said immediately. "I'm saying you are fast."
Jerry snorted. "That's not a compliment."
Sigurd pointed at me accusingly. "I have never seen someone hone such barbaric swordsmanship at this speed."
My shoulders slumped. "Hey! My swordsmanship isn't barbaric."
"It is," he said flatly.
"It's effective," I shot back.
Sigurd laughed. Actually laughed. "Effective? You fight like you're trying to survive an ambush in a cave, not duel a human opponent with rules and witnesses."
Jerry hissed in agreement. "You aim for arteries."
"Because that works!" I snapped.
Sigurd shook his head dramatically. "Your handling of the sword is a stain upon the art. An insult. Somewhere, the spirits of true warriors cringe."
"That's harsh."
"It is accurate."
I glowered, tightening my grip. "Assume stance then. If you're done complaining."
He grinned. "Gladly."
We moved at the same time.
I lunged, putting weight behind the strike, mana reinforcing my arms the way he'd taught me. Sigurd dodged, countered—
Crack.
The sound was sharp and final.
For half a second, I didn't understand what had happened.
Then the weight in my hands vanished.
I stared down at the broken hilt.
The blade lay in two pieces at my feet.
Silence fell.
Sigurd blinked. Once. Twice.
"…That," he said slowly, "is unfortunate."
I felt my face drain of color. Without a word, I bent down, picked up the broken blade, and walked over to the pile beside the training area.
Wooden swords.
Practice blades.
Metal swords.
All broken.
I tossed the pieces onto the pile and sighed. "I'll have to ask the swordsmanship instructor for another sword."
Jerry tilted his head. "Again?"
"Yes, Jerry. Again."
Sigurd hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps the swords are simply unable to withstand your… enthusiasm."
"That's not comforting."
I wiped my hands on my pants and headed toward the training hall, shoulders slumped. The swordsmanship instructor was packing up when I arrived, wiping down a rack.
I cleared my throat. "Um. Sir?"
He turned, eyeing me with that same assessing gaze. "Yes?"
"…I need another practice sword. Mine broke."
His brow twitched. "Again."
"Yes."
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Wait here."
He disappeared into the storage room.
I stood there, mortified, listening to the muffled sounds of rummaging. Sigurd peeked out of my pocket.
"You should feel honored," he whispered. "Few warriors break this many blades."
"I don't think that's how it works."
The instructor returned.
Empty-handed.
He paused in front of me, then sighed. "We're out of swords."
I stared. "Out?"
"Yes. Completely."
"Oh."
Heat crept up my neck. "So… where do I get one?"
He studied me for a long moment, eyes narrowing—not in annoyance, but thought.
"Make one," he said finally.
I blinked. "Make… one?"
He nodded. "If you forge your own blade, you won't run out. And you'll learn restraint."
Sigurd perked up. "Finally. A sensible solution."
Jerry groaned. "She's going to burn the forge down."
I swallowed, heart thudding. "The academy forge?"
"Yes. Speak to the instructors there. Consider it… part of your education."
I bowed slightly. "Thank you, sir."
As I turned to leave, Sigurd's voice echoed smugly in my mind.
"Well then, Mavis. It seems your next lesson is clear."
I glanced back at the pile of broken swords.
"…I'm going to need a lot of patience."
And probably a fire extinguisher.