I couldn’t make the stone move. Not even a little. That disappointment followed me out of the Natural Philosophy classroom and across the academy grounds. Nearly every other student had managed something. The most advanced among them had lifted their stones smoothly and held them in the air. The less experienced students had made theirs tremble, scrape across their desks, or become warm. One boy had nearly launched his into the ceiling. All of them had done something. I had stared at my stone until my eyes hurt, and it had remained completely unimpressed. Three affinity crystals had filled entirely with blue light for me. One hundred percent magic. Apparently, that meant I possessed the extraordinary magical ability to leave rocks exactly where I found them. I slipped my hand into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the stone. Despite my disappointment, I remained fascinated by Professor Aurelia’s lesson. Grammar. Logic. Rhetoric. What was the subject? What was true about it? What result did I intend? The stone had not moved, but the way she approached the problem made sense to me. Before trying to change something, define it. Before acting, understand what conditions produced the current result. Before attempting a solution, decide exactly what success should look like. I couldn’t use magic. At least, I couldn’t use it yet. But I wanted to understand it. Professor Aurelia had made staring at a rock feel almost like studying an opponent. Perhaps that was what I needed to do with Mamoru. Saying that I couldn’t hurt him was not useful. Why couldn’t I hurt him? What was the shield? What was true about it? What conditions allowed it to appear? What caused it to weaken? I didn’t have any answers yet. At least I was beginning to understand which questions to ask. I checked my schedule. My next class was Weapons. I looked down at my uniform. The walk through the sunlight had finally dried most of it, but I doubted a blazer and plaid trousers were appropriate for weapons practice. Fortunately, I remembered seeing another set of clothes inside my wardrobe. Unfortunately, that meant returning to room 107. I crossed the northern courtyard, entered the boys’ dormitory, and followed the corridor toward my room. The wall beside room 107 still ended at waist height, as though the builders had simply lost interest halfway through. Sunlight poured through the missing upper half of the room, illuminating the banner hanging over my bed. A golden tree spread its branches across deep green fabric, its roots twisting around one another beneath the trunk. The Lote tree. I still had no idea whether the academy considered the missing wall normal. Perhaps they had decided that doors were unnecessary if half the room already opened into the corridor. I climbed over the half wall, this time trying to be mindful of my injured shin. My clean uniform had been the most important thing to retrieve earlier, so I had left the rest of the clothes folded inside the wardrobe. Beneath the spare uniform was a second outfit. The shirt was made from thick wool, yet it felt surprisingly soft beneath my fingers. It sat close around my torso without restricting my shoulders. The matching trousers narrowed around my legs but stretched easily when I lifted my knees. Small ties fastened the waist, cuffs, and lower edge of the shirt. I had no idea what any of it was called. It looked like comfortable woolen exercise clothing. That was enough for me. I changed quickly. Whoever had designed the outfit understood movement. The shirt stayed close without pulling when I rotated my shoulders. The trousers allowed me to raise my knees and widen my stance without tightening around my hips. My leg still hurt, but the pain had settled into a deep soreness rather than the sharper ache from yesterday. I tested my weight on it. Uncomfortable, but manageable. The weapons hall stood beyond the western courtyard, near one of the outer walls overlooking the sea. I heard it before I saw it. Wood struck wood in rapid succession. Metal rang somewhere inside. Dozens of voices collided into one unintelligible roar. I entered through a pair of open doors. The hall was longer than the empty-hand training room, although its floor was made from the same packed dirt and scattered hay. Weapons covered nearly every wall. Swords hung in orderly rows beside spears, axes, clubs, shields, bows, chains, and several objects I could not identify. Some resembled farming tools. Others looked as though someone had attached blades to whatever happened to be lying nearby. Practice weapons occupied the lowest racks. Wooden swords. Blunted spears. Clubs wrapped in leather. Flexible cords ending in padded weights. Students gathered in groups throughout the room. Some wore the same simple exercise clothing as me. Others were already dressed in protective equipment. The difference between them was impossible to miss. Several students wore fitted gambesons embroidered with family crests or patterns stitched in bright silk. One boy had small metal plates sewn beneath the shoulders. Another wore leather guards tooled with gold around the edges. A Zhanghua student had arrived in a deep red jacket fastened with polished black clasps. Beside him, another adjusted the cords of a dark blue chest protector that looked as though it had been made specifically for him. Then there were the local Albion students. Most wore thick, dull-colored padded coats that appeared to have been passed down through generations of academy students. The colors had faded unevenly, and several bore visible patches along the sleeves. An assistant standing beside a storage room looked me over. “You need a coat.” “I do?” “You intend to practise without one?” I glanced toward the wooden swords. “They’re blunt.” “So is a hammer.” “True.” He handed me one of the faded blue padded coats. It was heavy, stiff, and smelled faintly of dust and old sweat. The front overlapped across my chest and fastened with several straps. The sleeves ended slightly above my wrists, and the lower edge reached almost to my knees. I pulled it on. The padding made my shoulders feel twice as wide. The assistant tightened one strap, stepped back, and examined me. “Good enough.” I looked toward the other students wearing the same borrowed gear. Most appeared to be poor white kids. Their equipment lacked embroidery, polished leather, or metal fittings. A few had repaired tears with thread that didn’t match the original fabric. In the faded blue coat, I almost looked like one of the local students. At least until anyone looked above the collar. “Line!” The command struck the room like a cannon. Every conversation stopped. Students hurried toward the centre of the hall. I moved with them and found a place near the back. The man standing before us was not particularly tall, but something about him made the entire room feel organised around his presence. He wore a simple cream-coloured tunic beneath a dark green coat. A deep blue turban covered his head, and a full salt-and-pepper beard framed a face marked by gentle eyes and an almost constant smile. His hands were folded loosely behind his back. When he spoke again, his voice became soft. “Good morning.” “Good morning, Professor,” the class answered. The force had vanished from his voice so completely that I wondered whether I had imagined the command. “My name is Professor Bahadur.” He looked from one end of the line to the other. “I will be teaching you the use of weapons.” His smile widened. “I will also be attempting to teach you when not to use them.” He took several steps with his hands clasped behind his back, as though going for a pleasant walk rather than preparing to teach us how to injure one another. “You will discover that the second lesson is more difficult.” A few students laughed. His attention shifted towards our equipment. “Those wearing private armour will present it for inspection before practice. Ornament does not make poor stitching safer.” The boy with the gold-edged leather guards looked down at them. “Those wearing academy equipment will report any damaged straps, torn padding, or previous bloodstains.” There was a brief silence. A student near me raised his hand. “Previous bloodstains?” Professor Bahadur’s smile remained perfectly pleasant. “It is useful to know where the padding has already failed.” Several students began examining their coats more carefully. I looked down at mine. No visible blood. Good. Professor Bahadur walked towards the centre of the hall. Three tables had been arranged there, each covered by a cloth. He stopped behind the first. “Before you learn a weapon, you must learn what a weapon does.” He pulled away the first cloth. A wooden stick rested beneath it. Professor Bahadur lifted it with one hand. “This is a hard weapon.” He held it horizontally. “A hard weapon retains its general structure while force travels through it.” He struck the stick lightly against his palm. “The hand moves. The weapon moves. The target receives the collision.” He placed the stick back on the table. From beneath the second cloth, he revealed a long leather whip. “This is a soft weapon.” He lifted the handle. The rest remained coiled upon the table. “A soft weapon bends, folds, circles, and changes its shape during use.” With a small movement of his wrist, the whip rose. It uncoiled across the floor in a smooth wave. The tip stopped just before touching the boot of a student in the front row. The student froze. Professor Bahadur flicked his wrist again. The whip folded back upon itself and landed in a nearly perfect circle on the table. His smile had never changed. “A soft weapon carries motion differently. Its striking portion may continue moving after the hand has already changed direction.” He covered it again. Beneath the third cloth was a broken piece of green glass. Several students looked confused. Professor Bahadur picked it up carefully between two fingers. “This is a sharp weapon.” “A broken bottle?” someone asked. Professor Bahadur looked towards him. “Would you prefer to be stabbed with it before accepting the classification?” “No, Professor.” “Then we have saved time.” Quiet laughter passed through the line. He held the shard so that sunlight caught its jagged edge. “A sharp weapon concentrates force upon a narrow edge or point.” He returned it to the table. “The material is irrelevant. A weapon does not require a smith, a name, or a place upon a rack.” His eyes moved across the room. “Anything capable of causing harm may become a weapon when used with that intention.” Professor Bahadur drew three large circles on a chalkboard. Inside them, he wrote: HARD SOFT SHARP “A weapon may belong to one class.” He placed the stick beneath HARD. “Or several.” He selected a practice sword from the wall and placed it between HARD and SHARP. “A sword is hard and sharp.” He returned to the table and withdrew a short chain. One end carried a metal weight. The other ended in a curved blade. “This contains all three.” He lifted the chain. “The weight is hard.” He let the links hang between his hands. “The chain is soft.” He angled the blade towards the light. “And the edge is sharp.” The weapon moved suddenly. The weight circled around his shoulder. The chain passed behind his back. The blade turned around his wrist and stopped along his forearm without touching it. Then the entire weapon collapsed neatly into his palm. The movement had been so quick that I hadn’t understood how he had done it. Professor Bahadur placed the chain back on the table. “Do not assume that understanding a class means understanding every weapon within it.” He moved towards the racks. “A staff and a hammer are both hard.” He removed a quarterstaff and spun it once around his body. The ends blurred. It stopped vertically beside him. “They do not behave alike.” He returned the staff and lifted a long-handled hammer. It looked heavy enough that I expected him to use both hands. He moved it with one. The head passed around his shoulder, dipped behind his back, and returned to rest against the floor without pulling his coat out of place. “A knife and a spear are both sharp.” He returned the hammer and selected a spear. One moment, the point rested beside his shoulder. The next, it had stopped a finger’s width from the face of a boy in the front row. The boy’s eyes crossed as he stared at the blunted point. “Their ranges, methods of control, and consequences are different.” Professor Bahadur withdrew the spear. He turned it, caught the shaft beneath his arm, and returned it to the rack. “Classification tells you which questions to begin with.” His hands folded behind his back once more. “It does not provide every answer.” Professor Aurelia’s lesson returned to me. Understanding preceded power. Apparently, it also preceded hitting people with sticks. Professor Bahadur pointed towards a list mounted beside the racks. It contained drawings of six weapons. A cudgel. A staff. A spear. A sword. A dagger. A rope with a weighted end. “These are not the only weapons worth studying.” He tapped the cudgel. “The cudgel teaches alignment, impact, and the use of a simple lever.” His finger moved towards the staff. “The staff teaches control with two hands, changing grips, changing ranges, and moving the fulcrum.” Then the spear. “The spear teaches the line of the point, distance, recovery, and the importance of the far end.” The sword. “The sword teaches edge alignment, guard, binding, and the relationship between offence and defence.” The dagger. “The dagger teaches control at close range, where large movements become liabilities and sometimes become impossible.” Finally, he touched the weighted rope. “And a flexible weapon teaches continuous motion, timing, and the price of failing to control what you have set in motion.” I studied the drawing. The rope ended in a round weight slightly larger than a fist. Professor Bahadur stepped away from the list. “These foundations transfer.” He gestured towards the hall. “A student who understands a club may approach a mace without beginning from nothing. A student who understands a staff will recognise principles within the spear, poleaxe, and many farming implements.” He rested one hand upon the sword rack. “A student who understands the sword will not immediately understand every blade ever forged.” His smile returned. “But he will know which questions to ask.” Professor Aurelia would probably have approved of him. Professor Bahadur clapped his hands softly. “Today, however, you will not strike anything.” Several students looked disappointed. “You will learn to hold a weapon before attempting to impress your classmates with it.” He looked directly at a group of older boys who appeared far too comfortable around the weapon racks. “Some of you will find this restriction unbearable.” One of them lowered the wooden sword he had been balancing across his shoulders. Assistants began moving through the hall with baskets of practice weapons. They placed an assortment before each group. Mine received a wooden sword, a staff, a spear, a short club, a wooden hammer, and a padded rope weight. Professor Bahadur lifted the club from his table. “Every weapon has mass, and that mass is not distributed evenly.” He balanced the club across one finger. “This is its point of balance—the place where the weapon’s weight settles around a single support.” The club rested closer to its thicker end than its handle. He shifted his finger slightly. The club tipped. He moved it back. The club settled. “When the point of balance lies farther from your hand, the weapon carries more authority through a strike but resists changes in direction.” He picked up the hammer. Its balance point lay much closer to the wooden head. “It takes more effort to begin moving.” He guided it through a slow arc. The heavy head seemed to pull the rest of the weapon behind it. “And more effort to arrest or redirect once it has begun.” The hammer stopped. Even without great speed, I felt the air move. Professor Bahadur called one of the assistants forward. The assistant carried a staff. “Bind.” The command emerged with enough force to straighten half the class. The assistant immediately pressed the middle of the staff against the hammer’s handle. Professor Bahadur adjusted the weapon until the heavy head extended beyond the point of contact. He pressed. The assistant’s staff was forced aside. “Mass beyond the point of contact can lend authority to the bind.” He reversed the hammer so the heavy head remained closer to his body. They pressed again. This time, the assistant moved it aside more easily. “But leverage still depends upon where you grip, where the weapons meet, and how the force is directed.” Professor Bahadur lowered the hammer. “There are few rules in weaponry without conditions.” He selected a narrow practice sword. Its point of balance rested only a short distance beyond the guard. “Weight near the hand gives control.” He moved the point through several tiny circles. Each one passed around the same invisible space. “Precision.” The sword stopped. “Recovery.” The point changed direction without the rest of his body moving. “And the ability to alter your intention after movement begins.” He handed the sword to the assistant. “There is no perfect balance for every purpose.” Professor Bahadur took the hammer again. “A tool designed to crush armour should not feel like a duelling blade.” He lifted the practice sword. “A weapon designed for rapid changes should not handle like a sledge.” He placed both on the table. “The question is not whether a weapon is well balanced.” He smiled. “The question is what it is balanced to do.” That sentence settled somewhere in my mind beside Professor Aurelia’s lesson. What was it? What was true about it? What was it balanced to do? “Begin.” The command snapped through the hall. Every group moved. I picked up the wooden club first. It was simple. One end was thicker than the other. I laid it across my finger and shifted it until the weight settled. The balance point rested beyond the middle, towards the striking end. I marked the position with my thumb. When I held the club normally, I could feel the heavier end pulling away from my hand. I moved it carefully. The club resisted at first. Then, once it began moving, it wanted to continue after my wrist stopped. The student beside me picked up the wooden sword. He was one of the local poor white kids wearing a faded gambeson like mine. He balanced it across two fingers. “Closer to the guard,” he said. “Yeah, that makes sense.” He glanced at me. “You’ve done this before?” “What? Held things?” He stared at me. “That wasn’t what I meant.” I shrugged. Truthfully, I didn’t know. The club felt natural. At least, it felt natural compared to trying to make a rock float. I picked up the hammer. The head dragged my hand down immediately. Its balance point rested far along the handle. I guided it through a slow circle. The weapon resisted the beginning of the movement. Once the head began travelling, it resisted stopping even more. The wooden longsword felt completely different. Its weight remained closer to my hand. The point responded to small changes in my fingers and wrist. I could redirect it without fighting the entire weapon. The spear felt light while held upright. Then I extended it. The farther the point travelled from my hands, the heavier it seemed to become. I moved my front hand forward. The point became easier to control, but my reach shortened. I moved my front hand back. My reach returned, but the far end became less stable. The weapon itself had not changed. Only the relationship between my grip and its weight. Professor Bahadur moved between the groups. He corrected hands, adjusted stances, and occasionally took a weapon from a student to demonstrate a movement. He did everything with the same relaxed expression. “Once you have found the point of balance,” he said, “you must learn how the weapon moves around it.” He took a practice spear from one of the assistants. The shaft rolled across his palm, passed behind his fingers, and returned to the same grip. “You are not throwing it.” He repeated the movement more slowly. “You are allowing its weight to travel around your hand while maintaining contact.” Several students attempted it. The hall immediately filled with the sound of wood striking dirt. A club slipped from one girl’s hand and rolled beneath a bench. A wooden sword struck its owner in the shoulder. The boy across from me gave the practice spear a sharp turn. It escaped his fingers and flew towards the next group. Professor Bahadur caught it behind his back. He continued walking as though nothing had happened. “This,” he said, “is why we are not striking one another today.” The class laughed. The boy who had lost the spear looked as though he wanted to disappear into his gambeson like a turtle shell. Professor Bahadur returned the weapon to him. “Slower.” “Yes, Professor.” I looked down at the spear in my hands. The movement had seemed simple when Professor Bahadur performed it. Everything seemed simple when Professor Bahadur performed it. I positioned the shaft across my right palm. My fingers opened. The spear rolled across my skin, passed behind my fingers, circled my thumb, and returned to my grip. I stopped. The Albion boy beside me stopped as well. I stared at the spear. That felt way too easy, It felt like it was made just for my hands I tried again. The shaft rolled around my palm and settled into the same grip. Faster this time. Then backwards. It travelled around my thumb, across the back of my hand, and dropped neatly between my fingers. The Albion boy lowered his sword. “You’ve definitely done this before.” “I don’t know if I did.” “How does one not know?” I shrug “It's been a reoccurring issue.” I transferred the spear to my left hand. The boy watched closely. I did too, I didn't even understand what my hands were doing. I'm pretty sure I'm right-handed, I took notes with my right hand in the last class. Maybe I knew the movement because I practiced it before? Let me try with the left. The shaft rolled across my palm. My fingers guided it behind my hand, around my thumb, and back into my grip. Exactly as smoothly as before. I changed direction. The spear returned. I could switch it between the left and right with no issues. The movements fitted together without hesitation. My wrists adjusted to the weight before it arrived. My fingers opened only as far as necessary and closed exactly when the shaft reached them. I had no memory of learning any of it. But my hands had no issues with the movement. Something inside my body recognised the weight. The pressure travelling across my palm. The moment the shaft wanted to fall. The place my fingers needed to be before it did. The Albion boy looked between my hands. “That isn’t beginner’s luck.” “I don't know if it is anymore,” I admitted. “Then what is it?” “I was hoping you'd tell me.” I tried the staff. It was longer and balanced closer to the middle. The first rotation passed around my right hand and settled along my forearm. From there, I caught it with my left and continued the movement across my body. The staff circled behind my shoulders. My left hand released. My right caught the other end. The wood passed around my neck, dropped beneath my arm, and stopped across both palms. I stared at it. The Albion boy stared at me. Several students nearby had stopped practising. I raised the staff again. Its weight travelled from one hand to the other as though following a path that already existed. I didn’t need to think about where to catch it. Thinking almost made it worse. When I let my arms move on their own, the staff simply went where it was supposed to. My thoughts were free to wander while my hands continued without me. Somehow, this was easier than walking and thinking at the same time. Professor Bahadur stopped several paces away. He was watching me. His smile remained, but something behind it had changed. I couldn't tell if he was interested or suspicious. Can't blame him, I was too. I expected him to ask whether I had trained before. Instead, he said, “Move your feet.” I looked down. He continued. “Advance while continuing the rotation.” I positioned the staff beside my shoulder. The movement began easily. My right hand turned it. My left received it behind my back. I stepped forward carelessly, pain flashed through my injured leg for a second. My front foot landed too stiffly, and my weight remained behind me for half a second too long. The staff completed its rotation anyway. My hands corrected the path. My shoulders twisted farther to compensate for what my hips had failed to do. Professor Bahadur watched. “Again.” I stepped with the other foot. The staff moved smoothly. My arms remained precise. My rear foot dragged slightly before catching up. “Again.” I advanced another step. This time, I tried to move my whole body with the weapon. My foot landed. My knee wavered. My balance shifted outside my stance, and the heavy gambeson pulled me farther than I expected. I nearly stumbled. The staff never left my hands. My right wrist turned. My left caught it. The weapon stopped perfectly across my body while everything beneath my waist felt like it was off beat. I planted my foot and recovered. A few students laughed. Professor Bahadur glanced towards them. They returned to their own exercises. He looked at me again. “Your hands understand the weapon better than your feet understand the floor.” I lowered the staff. “My leg is injured.” “I see.” He stood there silently stroking his beard looking down at my legs. The silence made it clear that the injury was not his entire answer. Professor Bahadur stepped closer. “Stand as you did before.” I set my feet apart. He placed one hand against the staff. “Do not allow me to move it.” I tightened my grip. He pressed. My arms held. The pressure travelled through my wrists, elbows, and shoulders. My upper body adjusted almost automatically, shifting the staff to a stronger angle. Then the force reached my stance. My rear heel lifted. My knee turned inward. My weight collapsed towards the injured leg, and I had to step back to keep from falling. Professor Bahadur stopped pressing. “Your arms are strong.” I looked down at my feet. “My legs feel like noodles though.” The corner of his mouth moved. “Again.” I reset. This time, I tried to brace before he pressed. The result was better, but still not good. My shoulders caught the force first and held it there. My hips barely moved. Instead of transferring the pressure into the ground, I fought it entirely with my arms. Professor Bahadur released the staff. “You can control the weapon,” he said. “But you are carrying its movement above your waist.” I glanced at the staff. “Is that bad?” “It is incomplete.” He placed one foot beside mine. “Your hand does not produce a strike alone. The wrist receives support from the elbow. The elbow receives support from the shoulder. The shoulder receives support from the spine, the hips, the legs, and the ground.” He tapped the packed dirt with his heel. “If the chain ends here—” He touched my shoulder. “—then everything below it contributes nothing.” “So I’m using half my body.” “You are attempting to.” That sounded worse. Professor Bahadur took the staff from me. He held it in his right hand and extended the end slowly. His arm barely appeared to move. His rear foot pressed into the ground. His hip turned. The movement passed through his torso, shoulder, elbow, and wrist. The staff stopped with a soft rush of air. Then he repeated it using only his arm. The staff still moved quickly, but the difference was obvious. The first motion had felt connected. The second looked like a limb carrying a piece of wood. “Strength is not simply the amount of force a muscle can produce,” he said. “It is also the ability to deliver that force without losing its path.” He returned the staff. “Your hands have been educated.” I looked at them. They did not appear especially educated. “Your stance has not.” My legs did somehow look less educated than my hands. He stepped back. “Again. Slowly.” I positioned the staff and began the rotation. My right hand guided it across my body. My left received it. “Step.” I moved my front foot. “Do not reach for the floor. Place your foot.” I shortened the step. “Turn the hip.” I tried. My injured leg protested, but the movement felt different. The staff no longer travelled entirely around my shoulders. Some of the turn passed through my waist. “Again.” I repeated it. My hands wanted to move faster than my feet. I forced them to wait. The staff circled. My foot moved. My hips followed too late. The weapon reached its position first and had to pause for the rest of me. Professor Bahadur noticed. Of course he did. “Again.” I tried once more. This time, I moved my foot before the staff. My balance shifted too soon. The staff’s weight pulled me sideways, and my hands corrected it before I consciously realised what was happening. I remained upright. Barely. The Albion boy watched from beside me. “Your hands keep saving you.” “I’m glad they are.” Professor Bahadur’s gaze remained on my feet. “Reliance becomes weakness when it conceals what has failed.” Apparently, all the professors talked funny here. It was like they had gotten together and planned the most ridiculously philosophical things they could say to us. I imagined Professor Aurelia and Professor Bahadur sitting in the teachers’ lounge. And then I told him, “Reliance becomes weakness when it conceals what has failed.” No way. Did he buy it? Completely. Bahahaha Professor Bahadur pointed towards a line scratched into the dirt. “Walk along it.” “With the staff?” “With your feet.” That seemed obvious after he said it. I placed one foot on either side of the line. “Advance without allowing your stance to narrow.” I stepped. My front foot landed correctly. My rear foot followed and drifted too close towards the centre. “Again.” I corrected it. The next step was better, but my weight remained high and stiff. “Bend your knees.” I did. Pain spread through my shin. “Not so far.” I straightened slightly. “Again.” I advanced. The motions felt awkward in a way the staff never had. I understood what he wanted, but my legs did not respond with the same certainty as my hands. Every step required a decision. How far? At what angle? Which part of my foot should touch first? How much weight should I transfer? My arms had answered those questions before I could ask them. My legs needed the questions repeated. Professor Bahadur walked beside me. “Now retreat.” I moved backwards. My rear foot crossed behind the other. Professor Bahadur tapped my ankle with the end of the staff. “Do not cross.” “I didn’t mean to.” “Your opponent will be relieved to hear it.” I tried again. This time, my feet remained apart. My injured leg weakened when the weight settled onto it. My knee dipped, and my shoulders tilted to compensate. “Stop.” Professor Bahadur looked from my stance to the staff. “Rotate it.” I did without much thought. “Change hands.” The staff crossed my body and settled into my left hand. “Again.” I reversed the movement. “Walk.” I advanced. The staff remained controlled. My steps just didn't match, I almost hit my leg a few times because my feet couldn't keep up with the rhythm. Professor Bahadur nodded to himself. I wasn’t sure what conclusion he had reached, but he seemed satisfied that he had reached one. “Your upper body possesses considerable training,” he said. “I don’t remember any.” “Memory is not always consulted.” I looked at him. “What does that mean?” “It means your hands have provided evidence that your mind cannot.” That sounded familiar. Professor Aurelia had told me not to confuse a measurement with an explanation. Professor Bahadur was doing the same thing. My body could handle a weapon. That was the measurement. Why it could do so was apparently a different question. “What should I do?” I asked. “Train your legs.” I waited. He smiled. “That answer was simpler than you expected.” “I mean yeah.” “Good instruction need not be mysterious.” He pointed towards the line in the dirt. “Your hands already know how to hide many mistakes. Do not permit them to hide these.” He continued towards the next group. The Albion boy watched him leave. Then he looked at me. “So you have trained before.” “Apparently, parts of me have.” “What does that mean?” “I don’t know.” I shrugged. The boy sighed. I had been disappointing him with my shoulders for most of the lesson. We continued practising. I moved through each weapon with both hands. The club rolled across my right palm and returned to my grip. Then my left. The sword changed hands without its point wandering. The spear turned around either thumb with the same ease. The weighted rope was more difficult, not because either hand failed but because the padded weight continued moving after I wanted it to stop. Professor Bahadur had warned us about that. The first time I circled it, the weight wrapped around my forearm. The second time, I allowed the motion to travel farther before guiding it back. The rope passed around my shoulder, dipped beside my ribs, and returned to my hand. My fingers caught it neatly. My feet had not moved at all. When I attempted the same motion while stepping, the weight drifted outside its path. My hand recovered it before it struck anyone, but the difference was obvious. Stillness made my upper body look skilled. Movement exposed everything else. By the time the dismissal bell rang, my forearms felt warm but not tired. My legs trembled. Professor Bahadur returned to the front of the hall. “Place every weapon where you found it.” Students began lowering clubs, swords, and spears into the baskets. “If I discover that someone has placed a damaged practice weapon back upon the rack without reporting it, the entire class will spend tomorrow inspecting every piece of academy equipment.” Several students paused and began examining their weapons more carefully. Professor Bahadur smiled. “Fear remains an effective teaching method when used sparingly.” I ran my hands along the staff, checking for cracks. The wood was intact. I returned it to the basket. My palms felt strangely empty without it. Professor Bahadur dismissed us. Most of the newer students began removing their borrowed gambesons and filing towards the doors. Several older students remained. They retrieved helmets, gloves, and narrow practice blades from the racks. Assistants cleared space along one side of the hall. The Albion boy beside me began loosening the straps of his coat. “You staying?” “I want to watch.” “You won’t be sparring?” I looked down at my leg. “I enjoy walking too much.” He nodded as though that were sensible, then left with the others. I found a place against the wall and lowered myself carefully onto a bench. My leg throbbed beneath the gambeson. My arms had spent the lesson doing things I couldn’t remember learning. My legs had spent it revealing that they had not received the same education. That should have bothered me more than it did. Instead, it felt like the first useful thing I had learned about myself. Not an explanation. A distinction. Professor Aurelia would have called it a boundary. I could work with a boundary. Several pairs began sparring. Most looked exactly how I expected weapon fighting to look. People struck hard. Weapons collided. One student rushed forward while the other retreated. Another pair circled each other for so long that neither appeared willing to attack first. Then someone entered the cleared space near the far end of the hall. The student wore a plain white gambeson without a crest, but it was clear hers was nicer than the one the other local students wrote. The gambeson she wore seemed thinner, lighter and more compact, yet somehow more protective. A rounded practice helmet concealed the face completely. Mesh covered the front, and a padded collar hid the neck. The figure carried a narrow practice sword. It didn't have the same form as the one Professor Bahadur had demonstrated with The guard was small. The blade was long and thin. An older Albion student stepped forward to face the newcomer. He carried a similar weapon. They saluted. The match began. The older student attacked first. His point stopped short. The girl in the white gambeson had already moved. Only slightly, but it was just enough. Her blade extended. The padded point touched the centre of his chest. “Point,” an assistant called. They reset. The older boy attacked again. This time, he stepped deeper. His point passed beside her shoulder. Hers touched his ribs. “Point.” They reset again. The boy became more cautious. He feinted towards her hand, changed levels, and thrust towards her stomach. She retreated half a step. His blade stopped less than an inch from the fabric. Hers touched his wrist. “Point.” The boy lowered his sword. Someone else took his place. The second student was faster. His attacks came in combinations. High. Low. High again. The helmeted girl’s blade moved very little. Each defence seemed almost lazy. A turn of the wrist. A small retreat. A point appearing exactly where the attacker’s arm would be. He lost three exchanges without touching her. A third student entered. He used a longer weapon. That should have helped. It didn’t. His attacks failed at the same distance as the others. Not far away. Not obviously short. Close enough that I thought they were just missing by accident. Her point reached him by the same narrow margins. First against the glove. Second round beneath the shoulder. And finally she touched at the centre of his chest. I leaned forward. At first, I thought her opponents were misjudging their reach. Then the third student retreated and a fourth took his place. His height, stance, and reach were all different from her previous opponents. But he still failed at exactly the same distance. Professor Bahadur moved beside my bench without my noticing. “Why are they losing?” I looked up surprised he had been standing next to me. He nodded towards the practice floor. “Four students. Four different approaches. The same result.” I watched the helmeted girl retreat from another thrust. The attacking point stopped just short of her chest. Her blade extended. The padded tip touched the boy’s shoulder. “Point.” “She knows their range,” I said. Professor Bahadur waited. Apparently, that answer was not wrong enough to correct but not complete enough to accept. I looked more carefully. The girl reset her stance. Her opponent shifted his front foot. Before he attacked, she moved slightly. Like she was ready to go backwards but didn't actually take the step. She only adjusted her weight. When he thrust, she was already prepared to give him exactly the distance he expected. Almost. His point stopped short. She took the slightest of angles so her point touched him “She knows where their weapons will end,” I said. “Before or after they move?” I watched the opponent reset. He adjusted his stance and position. The girl’s sword changed angle with him. “Before.” Professor Bahadur’s smile widened slightly. “She isn’t waiting to see how far they can reach. She already knows.” “And they do not?” I watched another attack fail by the same narrow margin. “It seems like they think they do, but they don't.” “An important distinction.” Across the hall, the helmeted student remained completely focused on her opponent. I couldn’t see her eyes through the mesh visor. I didn’t need to. Every part of her faced the space between them. Another student stepped forward to challenge her. Professor Bahadur folded his hands behind his back. “Continue observing.” He began walking towards the practice floor. The match started. This time, I watched the empty space between them rather than their weapons. This time, I understood exactly where to look.

Chapter 26: Where the Weight Falls