"Again!"
The command sliced through the morning air of the Capital's training grounds like a butcher's cleaver. Yerel didn't wait for a response. He lunged, his practice sword a blur of silver light that caught the rising sun. His opponent, a seasoned captain of the Royal Guard who had survived three border skirmishes, barely managed to bring his blade up in time.
Clang.
The vibration traveled up the captain's arm, numbing his fingers. Yerel didn't let up. He was a whirlwind of precision, too precise, perhaps. With a flick of his wrist that looked more like a dance move than a martial strike, he disarmed the soldier. The captain's sword clattered across the white marble paving stones, spinning like a discarded toy.
