The second bell cracked across the yard.
Bradan didn't have to shout. He just lifted one hand. Pointed.
Pairs formed again. But this time, no drills. No mirrored steps. The line of recruits spread into two uneven arcs, each standing five meters apart from a partner.
"Sparring matches," Bradan said, still not raising his voice. "No flaring. No injuries you can't walk off."
He scanned the line.
"Call your intent. No points. Just learning."
Rethan stood third from the end.
Across from him: a boy with a crooked nose and the type of haircut you got when no one liked you enough to fix it. He bounced on his feet, just a little. Nervous energy, or maybe too used to being ignored.
"Begin," Bradan said.
No horn. No magic pulse. Just the word.
Crooked-nose charged in too fast.
Rethan sidestepped.
'Too heavy on his right leg.'
The boy swung anyway, low, wild, no guard.
