Belia did not waste time.
She turned and walked toward one of the nearby racks, her steps unhurried but purposeful. Rows of practice weapons lined the frame—wooden blades, dulled steel, mismatched hilts worn smooth by years of use.
Her hand passed over several before settling on a simple steel sword.
She lifted it, weighed it once in her palm, then stepped aside and gave it a few measured test swings. Not flashy. No excess force. Just clean arcs through the air, checking balance, reach, resistance.
Satisfied, she nodded.
Then she gestured toward the rack.
"Choose one."
Louis approached and selected a sword similar in make—plain, functional, familiar from his earlier training. He rolled his wrist once, adjusted his grip, then stepped back.
Belia turned to face him.
Both of them settled into stance.
Louis hesitated, then asked, "What are we doing?"
"Sword practice," Belia replied.
The answer only deepened the questioning look in his eyes.
She noticed.
"Sword practice is not about mastery," Belia said. "Not for you. Not yet."
"Then what is it about?" Louis asked.
"Pressure," she answered. "Awareness. Timing."
She raised her blade, holding it steady.
"A sword doesn't forgive hesitation. It exposes it. That makes it useful."
Louis narrowed his eyes, listening.
"You want to understand growth," Belia continued. "Not shortcuts. Not borrowed strength. A blade forces honesty. You either react correctly, or you don't."
She met his gaze directly.
"And before I teach you anything else, I need to see how you respond when there's no margin for comfort."
Louis exhaled slowly.
"…Understood."
Belia nodded once.
"Good," she said. "Then we begin simply."
She raised her sword.
"Defend."
Louis lifted his sword—
Pain exploded just below his ribcage.
The impact was clean, precise, and perfectly timed. His breath left him in a sharp gasp as his body folded instinctively, feet skidding half a step across the packed earth.
He looked up.
Belia stood where she had been an instant ago, blade already withdrawn, posture unchanged.
"You hesitated," she said. "And you assumed a beginning."
Louis drew a slow breath, jaw tightening.
"I thought—"
"This may be sword practice," Belia interrupted calmly. "But our primary goal is to test the limits of your body."
He straightened, forcing the air back into his lungs. A tight, resigned smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
"…Right," he said. "Testing."
She nodded once.
"Again."
She didn't wait.
Steel moved.
Louis raised his guard this time—barely in time to deflect the next strike. The force rattled his arms, numbing his fingers, but he held. A second blow followed immediately, angled lower. He caught it poorly and felt the shock travel through his frame.
Then the third strike came from a direction he hadn't expected.
Pain flared along his shoulder.
He stumbled back.
Belia advanced.
She didn't press wildly. Each strike had intent. Each one punished a specific mistake—his footing too narrow, his guard too high, his attention split between blade and body.
Louis stopped trying to win.
He started watching.
The next exchange lasted longer.
He failed to counter, but he blocked where he hadn't before. When she shifted her weight, he noticed. When her wrist turned slightly before a strike, he remembered it.
The blow still landed.
But not as cleanly.
"Again," Belia said.
They reset.
This time, he anticipated the opening strike. His sword met hers properly, steel ringing out across the yard. His arms shook under the impact, but he stayed upright.
She adjusted immediately.
He didn't.
Pain followed—sharp along his side, then dull as it faded faster than it should have.
Louis exhaled through clenched teeth and repositioned.
Again.
The pattern repeated.
Each exchange knocked him down a little less.
Some lessons came quickly. Others took several failures—misjudged distance, late reactions, instincts that lagged just enough to be punished. But every mistake left an impression, and his body adapted with quiet persistence.
Belia noticed.
Not in her expression—but in her pacing.
She began changing rhythms. Shortening steps. Delaying strikes by fractions of a second.
Louis caught on slower this time.
A blow slipped through, driving the air from his lungs. He dropped to one knee, sword tip scraping the ground.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Louis pushed himself upright again.
His muscles burned. His breath came heavy. And yet—he was still steady.
Belia studied him in silence.
"…You recover quickly," she said.
Louis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I've been told."
She raised her sword once more.
"Good," she said. "Then we continue."
And this time—Louis raised his guard before she moved.
The training continued into the night.
The yard was quieter now, lit only by scattered torches along the stone walls. Their exchanges were no longer explosive, but they hadn't slowed either. Steel met steel again and again, each clash deliberate, each movement tested under pressure.
Belia pressed him without mercy.
After one such exchange, she stepped back half a pace, blade still raised.
"You're doing better," she said. "And learning faster than most."
Louis adjusted his grip and gave a short nod.
"Yeah, good to know."
They resumed.
The rhythm returned almost immediately. Belia changed angles, altered timing, forcing him to respond on instinct rather than thought. Louis took hits—some light, some sharp—but he adjusted, corrected, endured.
During a brief pause between exchanges, Louis spoke.
"Have you ever lost an arm?"
Belia's sword hesitated for a fraction of a second.
She turned her head slightly, eyes narrowing as she looked at him.
"Almost," she said. "Why?"
Louis didn't answer.
They continued.
Steel rang out again. Footwork shifted. The pressure built as Belia drove him back, correcting his stance with precise strikes. The earlier question lingered, unanswered, hanging between movements.
After several more exchanges, Louis lowered his sword slightly.
"Help me cut off my arm."
Belia stopped.
This time, she turned fully to face him, disbelief crossing her features before discipline pulled it back into place.
Her thoughts slipped, unexpectedly.
Kirian's voice echoed in her memory.
He had spoken of a peaceful world. Of laws that protected everyone. Of a place without monsters, without constant war. A world where humans lived without fear, without the need to harden themselves against loss.
A world nothing like this one.
Then her mind drifted to John—the twenty-three-year-old cadet. Young. Trained. Ready to sacrifice himself because it was expected of him.
Belia looked at Louis again.
He was the same age as Kirian. Perhaps younger.
And yet his thinking was nothing like Kirian's.
She found herself wondering what kind of life would shape someone to think this way.