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The Mestre studied him for a long time. The wind whipped his indigo cloak, making it snap like a flag.

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He stood up, leaving the sword where it lay. The Mestre studied him for a long time

The moment the tip of the sword committed to its path, the Mestre’s hand moved. He didn’t block; he guided. His fingers touched the flat of the blade, applying the slightest pressure at the precise angle where Kael’s momentum was weakest. He stood up, leaving the sword where it lay

The Mestre danced. It was not a dance of avoidance, but of subtraction. Every time Kael swung, the Mestre was already where the sword was not. He stepped into the gaps of Kael’s defense, tapping the young warrior on the elbow, the knee, the chest. Each tap felt heavy, like a hammer blow, though the Mestre used no force.

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