The last cut of the cycle came out clean.
I held it at the end of the line—blade level, weight on the front foot, the last of the Tempest Dance's momentum still humming down the practice sword into my wrist—and waited for the hum to fade. It took a while. By the end of a full cycle the art had stacked so much force into each stroke that the sword kept moving for a moment after I'd stopped, like a bell that had been struck.
When it was quiet, I lowered the blade and looked at the clock above the door.
2:14 a.m.
