Two years passed before I even noticed.
Training got tougher, and on top of that I had to deal with writing lessons and etiquette.
And if physical training was fine... then old Andrew's lessons were hell.
The man corrected everything.
"Hold your pen straighter."
"You're sitting wrong."
"Speak properly."
"No, greet the lady first!"
Sometimes I wanted to throw the ink bottle at him.
But today none of that mattered.
Because today… Uncle Kars finally said I could touch a sword.
When I arrived at the training grounds, Kars was standing with his back to me.
He wasn't moving - just staring at a rack of wooden weapons like they'd insulted him personally.
Without turning, he said:
"I kept thinking which sword would suit you..."
Then he pointed forward.
"But go ahead and pick one yourself."
I walked to the rack.
The first sword was a huge two-hander.
I gave it a doubtful look, lifted it just to be polite, and put it back instantly.
"Nope. Not mine."
Next was something like a wooden rapier.
I swung it twice - and immediately felt the balance was completely wrong for me.
I tried a few more. Short ones, long ones, heavy ones.
And then I saw it.
A medium sword.
Not too long, not too short.
Light enough for one hand, but strong enough to hold with both if needed.
The balance felt... right.
I gripped it, swung carefully, and something inside clicked.
This one.
"Uncle Kars, I chose."
Kars nodded.
"Good. Now listen."
He tapped the sword lightly.
"A sword isn't just a stick. It's an extension of you. Like a new limb. But you won't feel that right away."
He stepped onto the field.
"So your first task is simple. And annoying."
He smirked.
"You'll repeat two basic strikes 1,000 times. A slash and a thrust."
He showed them slowly.
A clean downward slash.
A straight thrust.
"Your turn."
I copied him.
Right away:
"Legs, Erin! Your legs! Did you even look at mine?"
I froze.
"…Uh. No."
Kars sighed through his nose but didn't say anything.
He showed the stance again, slower.
I paid attention this time - how he placed his feet, how he shifted his weight, how his hips moved.
Now it made sense.
I tried again.
He corrected me.
Again.
Again.
By the time I finished the thousand strikes, my arms were burning and my legs felt like jelly.
But still… something changed.
Not the sword - it was too early for that.
But the movement.
The feeling of control.
The way my body responded.
It felt like... a new kind of freedom.
I let out a breath.
And couldn't help smiling.