A remedial track sounded merciful until the academy started sharpening the word remedial.
My first official combat class at Astral Zenith began with Instructor Seren Veylan throwing a practice sword at my head.
Reasonable, by academy standards.
The blade crossed the training hall before the bell finished ringing. Wooden edge. Weighted core. Blunt enough not to kill unless it hit the temple, throat, eye, or one of the several other places academy waivers pretended did not matter.
My right hand moved.
Too slow to catch.
Fast enough to redirect.
The sword struck my palm, glanced off the bandage beneath my glove, and spun into the floor beside my boot. Pain bit through the healing salve and climbed my arm with teeth.
I smiled because Cedric Valdrake would rather bleed internally than give an instructor free entertainment.
"Good morning to you too," I said.
Veylan stood at the center of the combat hall with a whistle hanging from one hand and a red folder tucked under his arm.
