“Right,” he said. He brought the sword up, and Thorda tapped the wooden poles together. A flex of his arms, and the sudden power flung Cyrus’s sword away. The pretend blade continued to lightly tap Cyrus on the forehead.

“What if I am too strong? There is no standing toe-to-toe against a paragon’s might.”

Cyrus had seen the enormous weaponry and armor the paragons wielded. Sure enough, trying to halt one of their gigantic weapons would be foolish.

“Then I dodge.”

“Which direction? Backward? To the shield side? To the sword side? How far, Cyrus? One step? Two? Three?”

Cyrus hopped left, just enough to avoid the hit. Thorda continued the pole’s movement downward, as if the swing had gone unabated.

“One swing, numerous decisions,” his master explained. “You cannot withstand a paragon’s might, but you can scurry and dodge until they bleed out from a hundred wounds. You cannot tire or disarm a magistrate whose weapon is a gleaming blade of faith, but you can overwhelm them, your parries and cuts meant only to close the distance between so you might score a quick, lethal blow. Now return to your first stance.”

Cyrus did as ordered. Thorda lifted up his sword, the hit clearly signaled in advance.

“Reactions will not be enough,” he said. “Even knowing what is coming, and believing your actions the wisest, may not suffice. The battle will be over before you blink.”

Down came the sword. Cyrus dashed left, moving far faster than their first example, but Thorda’s blade curled on its downward slope. The pole cracked into his knee, then swept the leg upward. He cried out at the pain. He never even saw the second hit, only felt wood bash his ribs, toppling him. He landed on his rear in the dirt. His master stood over him, calm as ever. It was as if he had not even moved.

“I will show you the movements,” Thorda said. “You will memorize the stances, each with their own purposes and their own consequences in how they shape the battle and dictate your next actions. You will learn when to use which, and how they flow into one another. For a time, you will be slow. You will think on what is proper, and that delay will cost you. This will frustrate you, but you will persevere. Your thoughts will grow silent. Your decisions will become instincts. You will not shift from stance to stance, but instead flow through them like water. It will be a deathly dance, and you will know it better than most alive. You are not there yet. You will not be near it tomorrow, either. But step by step, day by day, you will grow ever closer to that goal.”

Cyrus’s eager excitement dwindled and died in the face of harsh reality. The entire day felt like one long, lengthy session explaining how weak, slow, and pitiful he was in his current state.