“Again!” Santiago booms. “This time, I will watch.”

We move through the forms again—Eastern Wind, Path of the Sun, Slit the Rope, Salute the Sky, Bulwark.

“That was horrific,” the swordmaster says. “An assault to my eyes. If you must have a reference, watch these two”—with the point of his sword, he indicates Aldo and me—“whose forms are merely dreadful. Now do it again.”

My shoulders itch with the sure knowledge that I’m being closely watched as we move through the forms another time.

“What was that?” the swordmaster says, striding toward Pedrón. He waves his amputated arm under the boy’s nose. “It’s called Salute the Sky, not Pummel the Sky in the Face like a Clumsy Sack. Now do it again.”

We do it again. And again. And over and over until my shoulder burns and my thighs ache. Sweat dribbles down my forehead and stings my eyes. A sunburn heats the back of my neck.

Then, the swordmaster orders us to switch hands and start all over again.

“Hardly fair,” Pedrón whispers. “Being one-handed himself.”

I glare up at him. Injuries like the swordmaster’s are common, especially after the war.

As though he overheard the boy, Santiago says, “I know what you are thinking, yes, I do. But if you are injured in the line of duty, for instance”—he waves his arm stump in the air—“by taking a poisoned Invierno arrow to the elbow, your duty does not end. You must still protect our beloved empress, yes? So you will learn to use either hand with skill and confidence, as I once did.”

The muscles in my sides are beginning to protest and the sunburn on my neck is fire by the time Santiago calls a halt. “Stop, stop, I can take no more of this misery,” he says. “It is clear you are nowhere near ready to learn fighting skills. You will master these forms before I teach you even the simplest block. I expect it will take a month or more. Of course I’ll be delighted if you surprise me and master them all sooner, but . . .” He sighs dramatically. “I never bet on such improbable odds.”

With that, he releases us back into the care of Sergeant DeLuca, who thanks him with a deferential nod. Swordmaster Santiago strides from the arena without looking back.

“After the midday meal,” says the sergeant to us, “those of you who earned free time may do as you please until the dinner bell. Everyone else will remain in the mess to be assigned some afternoon chores.”

Several boys groan.

“You are dismissed,” the sergeant says.

Everything about this feels wrong to me—an outsider brought in for training, the classic forms detached from their practical application. But it could just be tiredness and injury whispering to me. We return our wooden swords to the rack and flee the hot arena for the cool barracks.

Today’s lunch is an oat mash mixed with shredded coconut and drizzled with honey. It’s not exactly a coconut scone, but I’m grateful for it anyway. I find a seat beside Iván.