Training (2)

The frost on the stones hadn't melted by the time Warren stepped into the training yard.

His boots crunched over the brittle layer as he rolled out his shoulders, wooden sword slung across his back. The wind hadn't yet picked up, but the bite in the air promised it would. He didn't mind. Cold helped with the swelling.

He stretched quietly, shaking out the stiffness from last night's sparring. The ache was familiar now. A dull companion that settled in his joints like a second skin. He could already feel the bruise on his left hip turning color, courtesy of Junie's elbow. Or maybe her knee. It had happened too fast to tell.

He turned his head slowly, eyes scanning the empty yard. No Vin yet. No Junie either.

Good.

A minute of peace.

He paced to the edge, started running through warm-up drills — footwork mostly, shuffles and pivots, keeping light on his heels. Then transitions. Mid-guard to low-guard. Left stance to right. One, two, step. One, two, reset.

Every movement he performed felt… off.

Not wrong. Just not his.

He'd seen Junie do this combo last week. Then Vin corrected it. Then he saw Junie do it again and thought she made more sense, so he went back to that.

Now, it just felt… hollow.

Warren grimaced and slowed.

"You're copying the footwork, not the purpose," Vin had told him once. "You're solving different equations with the same answer."

It had sounded like wise poetry back then. Now it just felt like a headache.

He'd been at this for weeks now — training under two completely opposite instructors.

Vin, who was calm, controlled, deliberate. His swordplay had no wasted movement, no sharp edges unless they were meant to bait. You never saw the strike coming until you'd already moved into it.

Then Junie — who hit like a goddamn avalanche. Her style wasn't elegant, it wasn't nuanced. It was a storm. One that screamed at you to defend, then punished you for flinching. Where Vin set traps and reacted to you, Junie made you move. She gave you no choice. No space.

Warren had stopped trying to make sense of it. He just memorized what he could, hoping eventually the right instincts would fire when he needed them.

But deep down, he knew…

He was learning techniques. He wasn't learning when to use them.

It was like someone teaching him how to build a house, but refusing to tell him what a foundation was for.

The gate creaked.

He turned.

Junie entered the yard, rolling her neck and cracking her knuckles. She wore her usual scout leathers — tight across the shoulders, arms bare. Her hair was tied up, and there was a familiar glint in her eye. The one that said: I'm going to enjoy this too much.

Warren swallowed. "Morning, Instructor."

"Still standing, huh?" she said with a grin. "We'll fix that."

He gave her a tired salute. She tossed him a practice sword and picked up her own.

"No warm-up today," she said, already pacing forward. "Your stance is sloppy when you're tired. So, let's get you there faster."

He raised the sword and dropped into a guard.

Junie didn't bother circling. She closed the distance immediately, forcing a parry from him with a downward blow that rattled his wrists. She didn't stop there. Strike. Strike. Shoulder feint. Elbow. Knee.

Warren backpedaled.

She advanced like fire rolling downhill — fast, chaotic, impossible to contain. Her hits weren't always precise, but they didn't need to be. She created chaos, then exploited it.

Force the rhythm. Punish deviation.

He tried to mirror her. Lunge, crash, drive the foot down and force the center.

For a second — just a second — he thought he had her timing. He aimed a counter.

Then pain.

A blunt strike to the ribs knocked the breath out of him. He folded. Dropped.

Junie stepped back, twirling her practice blade once. "Better. Still garbage. But better."

Warren coughed. "Thanks."

She crouched beside him, her voice oddly casual. "I'd give you a compliment if I thought you'd survive the week."

He rolled over with a groan and propped himself up on one elbow. "You said that last week."

Junie shrugged. "Still not convinced."

She stood and walked off toward the water buckets without another word.

***

That night, after she was gone, Warren sat on the same log he always did — just beyond the torchlight, where the cold soaked into your bones faster than the heat ever could.

Vin joined him five minutes later, quiet as always. He carried two canteens — handed one over without a word.

Warren accepted it, took a long drink, and leaned back.

"Hey, Vin?"

"Hm."

"You know, I've been thinking…"

Vin waited.

Warren glanced sideways. "Instructor Junie might not like you very much."

Vin didn't blink. "Why is she 'Instructor' and I'm just 'Vin'?"

"Because she told me to call her that. And she terrifies me."

A short silence.

"You gonna answer the question?" Warren asked.

"What question?"

"Why she hates your guts."

Vin looked out across the yard. "She doesn't."

"Right," Warren muttered, "and I'm secretly a swordmaster."

Another silence.

Then: "She's… complicated."

"That's your answer? After three weeks of me getting folded like laundry under her boots?"

Vin smiled faintly. "You're still breathing. She must like you."

"That or I'm not worth finishing off."

They sat like that for a while. Wind howling gently through the half-broken fencing. The moon hung low tonight, veiled in frost.

Warren tapped his canteen against his knee.

"You ever think about who'd win?"

Vin glanced at him.

"In a fight. Between you and her."

Vin didn't answer right away.

Warren continued. "You're like… smart. Tricky. Calm. She's just violence in a nice body. Like a sword with legs. You'd think brains would win, right? But then she steps into range and boom — broken ribs."

"She's stronger," Vin said. "And more aggressive."

"But you're unpredictable."

Vin stood up, slinging his canteen back over his shoulder.

"In a real fight, it wouldn't be about strength or tricks," he said. "It would come down to intent. She fights like she's trying to break the world."

"And you?"

Vin stared at him.

"I fight like I'm trying to survive it."

Then he walked away.

Training the next day was different.

Warren tried not to let the words rattle around too much. But they did.

He couldn't stop wondering:

What kind of fighter was he?

He wasn't fast. Not like Kaela.

He wasn't strong. Not like Junie.

He wasn't clever. Not like Vin.

He had technique, sure —. He could imitate stance, replicate form. But when it came time to apply them, his brain kept firing the wrong wires.

Vin had taught him how to bait. How to feint low, draw out a parry, and counter high. He understood it — technically.

But in a spar?

He'd fake low… and still swing low.

He'd block a feint as if it were real, then try to counter and leave himself wide open.

It was like trying to solve a math problem with a dozen correct answers and still choosing the wrong one every time.

And yet, he kept trying.

Because every time he failed, Vin didn't yell. Didn't criticize. He just corrected the grip. Replaced the stance. Reset the drill.

Over and over again.

And Junie?

She didn't explain anything. Just swung at him until he bled. And if he bled too early, she called him lazy. Or soft. Or disappointing.

Both of them taught him something.

But he didn't know which one would make him stronger.

He just knew that each time he fought, he moved more like them.

And less like himself.