Morning came without ceremony.
Osric felt it in his body before he saw the light—muscles tight, joints stiff, a dull ache settling deep into places he hadn't known could hurt. He rolled off the thin mattress in his room and sat there for a moment, hands resting on his knees, breathing slow.
This was happening inside the small inn he frequently visited. Osric had decided to reside here yesterday evening. He paid 5 copper for a night in a small room with only an old bed.
Osric checked his body—
He wasn't injured.
That almost made it worse.
By the time he reached the guild's training grounds, Franklin was already there.
No armor. No sword at his side. Just a wooden blade resting against the rack and a posture that looked too relaxed for someone about to start training again.
"You're late," Franklin said.
Osric frowned. "It's barely—"
"Pick it up."
Franklin tossed a wooden sword toward him without looking.
Osric caught it reflexively.
"Today," Franklin continued, turning to face him, "we fix one thing."
He raised his own wooden sword.
"And we don't stop until you hate it."
Franklin stepped closer and tapped Osric's sword aside with two fingers.
"What we will be working on," he said, "is your footing after you block an attack."
He adjusted his stance slightly—simple, almost lazy.
"Instead of rushing into a position that feels comfortable and makes you believe it's the best option for survival, you will move into a basic position that allows you to respond to a second strike."
'That sounds easy enough.'
"Understood."
Franklin didn't say anything else.
He swung.
Osric blocked the downward strike cleanly, wood cracking against wood. The impact pushed him off balance just slightly—barely noticeable.
He shifted his feet into the position Franklin had shown.
The wooden sword struck his left leg.
Osric went down hard.
'What just happened?'
"Stand up," Franklin said. "Again."
Osric rose quickly, jaw tight.
The same downward strike came.
He blocked it.
This time, he moved faster—forcing his feet into position before his balance had fully settled.
The blow came sooner.
Harder.
His leg was taken out from under him, and he hit the ground worse than before.
His breath left him in a sharp gasp.
'Why is this happening?'
Frustration burned hot in his chest.
Again.
This time Osric slowed everything down.
He focused on the block.
On his breathing.
On placing his feet perfectly.
He had just begun to settle—
—and Franklin's sword struck his side.
Osric stumbled, barely staying upright.
It wasn't the same follow-up.
Not the same angle.
Not even the same timing.
Franklin lowered his sword.
"You're thinking about where to stand," he said calmly.
Osric looked up at him.
"You're already dead before you get there."
Franklin raised his sword again.
Osric adjusted his stance automatically.
"Don't," Franklin said.
Osric froze mid-shift.
"Stand how you were standing."
Osric hesitated, then obeyed. His feet weren't wrong—but they weren't set either. Slightly open. Slightly tense. Ready to move.
Franklin didn't correct him.
He attacked.
The strike came down exactly the same as before.
Osric blocked.
Wood rang out.
His body screamed at him to move—now, anywhere, just not here. His muscles coiled, preparing to throw him into the familiar repositioning that had already failed him three times.
He stopped.
Not because he knew what to do.
But because he knew what not to do.
Osric held the block a fraction longer than felt safe.
Franklin's sword slid along his own instead of rebounding cleanly.
The follow-up didn't come immediately.
Osric felt it—an absence where the strike should have been.
Franklin adjusted.
Osric didn't chase the adjustment.
He let his weight settle straight down through his legs instead of forward or back. No step. No lunge. Just balance.
The second strike came late.
Osric shifted half a foot—barely a movement—and the blow missed his leg by a hand's width.
Franklin stopped.
Not abruptly.
Deliberately.
Osric stood there, breathing hard, pulse loud in his ears. He hadn't countered. He hadn't advanced. He hadn't won.
But he also hadn't fallen.
Franklin looked at him for a long moment.
"Again," he said.
They repeated it.
The same opening strike.
The same block.
Osric held.
Not stiff.
Not loose.
Present.
The second strike came from a different angle this time—higher, faster.
Osric didn't think.
He turned his hips just enough to let it slide past, wooden blades scraping as he absorbed the force instead of fighting it.
Franklin's sword passed him.
Missed.
Franklin halted mid-motion.
Osric didn't move.
He didn't realize right away that his stance had changed.
His shoulders were lower.
His grip steadier.
His feet quieter.
He wasn't waiting anymore.
Franklin lowered his sword.
"There," he said.
Osric blinked. "What?"
"That moment," Franklin replied. "You weren't trying to survive the strike."
Osric frowned, replaying it in his mind.
"I was just… standing."
Franklin nodded once.
"Exactly."
He stepped back and rested the wooden sword against his shoulder.
"You stopped spending energy on fear," Franklin continued. "You let structure do the work."
Osric looked down at his feet.
They hadn't moved much at all.
"You didn't get better footing," Franklin said. "You stopped wasting it."
For the first time that morning, Osric felt something shift—not in his body, but in how he understood it.
And Franklin saw it the instant it happened.
"That," Franklin said quietly, "is what real training is for."