One of Arxa’s soldiers comes forward with a light leather chest guard, as well as arm and shin covers. After I strap them on, Arxa hands me a wooden practice sword. The names of the parts come up easily: scabbard, blade. I wrap my hand around the hilt. It does feel natural there. But when I try to think what to do with it, my mind comes up blank. In the corner of my eye, I see Zivah hide her fidgeting hands in the folds of her apron.

Arxa looks at his soldiers, wearing the same expression Zivah does when she’s trying to choose between jars of herbs. “Cas,” he says.

The small man comes out, the one with the sharp eyes, and picks up his own practice sword. He raises it in front of him, and I imitate his posture.

“Go,” says Arxa.

Just like that? It’s on my lips to protest, but Cas is already coming at me with an overhead swing, his sword whistling through the air. I barely get my own sword up in time to block. He’s not fooling around. A crack rings over the sand, and the vibration from the clash numbs my palm. Cas doesn’t stop. Before I know it, he’s brought his sword around to my exposed side. Again, I block just in time, but again, I’m slow. The blow knocks me sideways, and I stumble.

A smile starts forming at the corners of my opponent’s lips—smug, and I don’t like the glint in his eye. He keeps attacking, one blow after another. His sword comes from above, from the side, and below. He’s toying with me, and it’s all I can do to keep up. I feel awkward and off-balance, like I have too many limbs and they don’t work together. The worst thing is, Cas is holding back. I can tell.

“Halt,” calls Arxa, and Cas lowers his weapon. I follow suit and lean over my knees, panting. He’s barely winded, yet my lungs feel like they’re going to explode.

I finally gather the courage to glance at the commander. He doesn’t look impressed.

“Remember, Commander,” says Zivah. “He’s not yet recovered his full strength and balance.” My insides shrivel with shame.

Commander Arxa makes a noncommittal grunt. “One more round.”

Cas takes up his fighting position, and I force myself to match him. I don’t dare look at Zivah—I don’t want to see the expression on her face.

“Now that we’re warmed up,” says Cas, “we can really get started.” His voice has an oily sheen.

Delightful fellow, this Cas.