Liora Ashveil did not believe in gentle rehabilitation.
She believed in truth, sweat, and wooden swords moving faster than my dignity.
"Again," she said.
The word had become a curse across my week.
Veylan said it like a diagnosis. Seraphina said it like medical necessity. Liora said it like she was personally offended by my skeleton.
We stood in a private side yard behind the old fencing hall. Private meant Veylan had cleared it, Seraphina had warded the entrance, Nyx had checked the roof, Ren had logged the session, Niko had inspected the floorboards, and Valeria had bribed a clerk to record the yard as unavailable due to "decorative humidity."
I did not ask.
The yard smelled of rain on stone and old wood. Straw practice figures lined one wall. A rack of training weapons stood under a patched awning. The sky above was gray enough to make the academy towers look like blades driven into cloud.
Appropriate.
My right hand held a wooden short sword.
For three seconds.
