The morning had begun before sunrise, as most of Lucavion's mornings did. He had spent the first hours conditioning, reviewing his footwork and repeating the basic movements that kept his body prepared for more demanding work. By the time the Academy's preparatory bell sounded, the practice yard had filled with students beginning their own routines, and Lucavion had already reached the final sequence of his session.
—SWOOSH!
He shifted off the centre line as his estoc returned from a shallow cut, allowing the blade's narrow point to pass beside an imaginary guard before his wrist turned and guided it forward again. Early sunlight crossed the reinforced practice yard in pale bands, glinting along the steel while distant impacts answered from the larger courts. Several students had begun their own routines nearby, and the grounds carried the scrape of boots, the dull collision of training weapons and the uneven breathing of bodies still adjusting to the morning.
