The three-way skirmishes I’ve had with Gaspard and Ambrose were physically difficult. Both are masters of the art and clearly held back in speed and force to allow me to keep up. Even then, they pushed me to my limit.

This is different. Ambrose and Gaspard are kindred—Ambrose like an older brother, and Gaspard an eccentric uncle. But Siaka... He’s way outside my comfort zone. I’m super self-conscious that I’m doing badly—very badly. My reactions are slow and I’m hesitant to hit him hard. “This isn’t working,” I say after a few minutes.

“It’s probably me,” Siaka says. “It’s been a month since I worked out with a weapon.”

“No,” I say, “You’re really good. I didn’t know you trained.”

His face lights up. “Yeah, Gaspard’s been training me for two years now. I don’t know about good, but I’m better.”

“No, seriously. Respect,” I say. “The problem is totally me. My rhythm’s off.” And with good reason, I think as I try not to stare at the defined muscles under Siaka’s close-fitting T-shirt.

In a swift set of movements, Ambrose tosses his axe onto its pegs, takes the swords from us, and replaces them with long wooden sticks.

“We’re switching to quarterstaffs,” he says. “You guys aren’t used to fighting each other. You’re holding back. These’ll do the trick. Hit each other as hard as you want, and all you’ll get is a bruise. Or, maybe a broken arm,” he says, pausing to consider the potential extent of quarterstaff damage. “Let’s focus on hitting and blocking, but not smashing.”

We start again.

This time I get into the rhythm—hitting, blocking, sweeping low to trip my opponent, jumping when Ambrose or Siaka does the same. We start slow, then accelerate. Swinging, swooping, blocking...our staffs form arcs and lines until I can almost see an intricate net of invisible forms carved out of the armory air.

I discover that when I concentrate on completing the shapes we draw instead of finding the right move, I’m free to go all-out. I feel stronger and more agile. Our moves match the music’s beat, and I get flashes of my opponents’ expressions between strikes. Ambrose’s intense concentration broken by flashes of exuberance when he executes the perfect sequence. Siaka’s single-minded focus, punctuated with exuberant yells. A few times, between strikes, our eyes meet. He’s radiating pure enjoyment. Anything I said or did to hurt his feelings is forgotten.

After a half hour of intense combat, Siaka lowers his quarterstaff and puts a hand up. “Break! I call break!” he pants.

“I hoped you’d say that,” I utter, gasping for breath. Setting down my weapon, I lean over, propping myself up, giving my racing heart a chance to return to normal rhythm.