The Weight of the Sword

The morning air was crisp.

Distantly, birds chirped.

Ed rolled his shoulders, adjusting his grip on the wooden sword in his hand.

The weight felt unnatural—not heavy, but wrong.

Like a tool that hadn't yet become an extension of his body.

Across from him, Zareth stood with his arms crossed, expression unimpressed.

"You holding that sword or is it holding you?" he asked, squinting.

Ed exhaled sharply. "I'm trying, alright?"

"Trying to do what? Summon a demon with bad posture?"

Ed gritted his teeth.

He wasn't new to fighting—he had strength, reflexes, the instincts of someone who had survived far worse than a sparring match.

But swordsmanship?

Technique?

That was something else entirely.

Zareth walked up and nudged Ed's knee with his foot. "Bend your legs. Don't stand like a tree."

Ed adjusted. "Like this?"