I’m in the middle front, with Aldo to my right, Pedrón to my left, and Iván staggered behind us. Itzal is on the far left end, after Luca and Andrés.

Santiago says, “Now grip your sword hilts, and raise your blades to the sky.”

We do as asked, raising our wooden weapons. My rib screams in protest.

“Hold them there.”

I’m glad I picked a small sword.

Santiago paces before us. “You’re holding light practice blades. Children’s toys made of pine. Nothing at all like real steel swords. Yet some of you are already struggling. Your shoulders burn. Your wrists tremble. No, don’t drop them; keep them raised high.”

He weaves through our staggered line, and I watch as he inspects each of us in turn. When he gets to Itzal, he reaches up and adjusts his grip on the hilt, moving the boy’s thumb so it wraps toward his fingers.

Santiago steps back to observe us all. His gaze lingers on me. My bruised rib is making each breath a torture, but I refuse to let my blade waver.

“I’ve never trained a girl before,” he says.

“You’ll find it uncannily similar to training any other person,” I tell him, and now I wish I hadn’t spoken, because my words have revealed my ragged breath. Pain makes black spots flit in my vision. Maybe my rib is broken after all.

His eyes narrow. “Are you injured?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Maybe you should rest. Leave the training to the boys.”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

He smiles. “Good.”

Master Santiago lifts his own sword, whips it around as though it’s as light as a feather.

Addressing us all, he says, “Most of you are not fit to learn sword work. Don’t worry; I will make you fit. For the next few weeks, you will practice forms, and forms only. You will strengthen your shoulders, your arms, even your fingers. You’ll perfect your grip. You’ll learn to find and keep your center of balance, no matter where your sword is or how you’re holding it. Now, follow my lead.”

He turns his back to us, dips into a deep right lunge, and extends his sword out, parallel to the ground. “Assume this position!” he yells.

We mimic him, some with more success than others. I recognize the form; it’s called Eastern Wind, and Hector taught it to me long ago. Pain rips my side, but my thigh muscles find the motion easy and natural.

“Now move as I move,” the swordmaster says. He slowly, gently transitions through a series of forms—arcs his sword around in Path of the Sun, whips it diagonally downward in Slit the Rope, thrusts it high in Salute the Sky, then brings it down—elbow out, heels together, blade at his nose—in Bulwark. His movements are graceful and efficient, more like that of a dancer than a weapons master.

He turns back around. “How did that feel?” he says.

Beside me, Pedrón is breathing hard. Aldo isn’t even breaking a sweat. My rib throbs, and my bruised nose and eye socket are somehow making the sunshine seem like daggers of light in my face. But the forms are familiar to my muscles and so, so much easier than sparring. If we do this for the next two weeks, my injuries might have a chance to heal.