Of course Stasia needn’t worry about being hit, he realized. His opponent solely held the offensive, for it took all his concentration to properly block. With each movement he had a half second to decide his next position, his next stance, so that he could deflect whatever follow-up Stasia unleashed. Yet as his panic eased, a rhythm established between them. The less he fretted over moves, the more his instincts took over. Raw and untested as they may be, they were still expertly honed by his master. Stasia clacked a pole against his leg once, and jabbed him in the stomach thirty seconds later, but by the time Thorda ordered a halt, those two hits were the only ones he’d suffered.

Cyrus wiped sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. He flashed Stasia a smile, proud at how well he had done. His master, however, seemed completely unimpressed.

“Fight him at your best,” Thorda told his daughter. Stasia glanced his way, the wooden poles twirling in her agile fingers.

“Are you certain?” she asked.

“I am. He must learn the scope of his deficiencies.”

Cyrus lowered into a stance, and his foe did likewise. Something changed in her, something subtle he couldn’t see but could absolutely feel. Her muscles were tensed more tightly, her red eyes sharp, her cocky smile fading away into concentration. No longer did he feel like a partner, or an equal. He felt like a deer before a panther. Pride kept his stance firm, and he swore he would hold his own no matter how skillfully Stasia fought.

Thorda’s voice was a whip cracking the air.

“Begin.”

The distance between them vanished. She opened with the same dual slash, and he blocked it as he had before. The difference this time, though, was that Stasia held nothing back. Her poles slammed into him, catching him retreating instead of properly setting his feet. The uneven footing robbed his defense of strength, and she batted aside his block as if it were nothing. As if he were nothing. One pole hit his shoulder, the other curled inward to strike his ribs. Cyrus swept his left hand in an arc, trying to brush both weapons aside as he’d been taught when fighting in such close proximity. Stasia’s right pole was already dropping in anticipation of the move, its flat tip smashing atop his knuckles. The pain and shock of it made him release the hilt, and his frantic mind was dimly aware how horrific a mistake that would be in real battle.