The weight of iron crushed into Soren's shoulders as his arms trembled, barely supporting the practice sword that seemed to gain mass with each passing moment.
Blood from his reopened blisters trickled down the hilt, making his grip treacherous. Six hours of Kaelor's special training had reduced his world to a pinpoint of agony and determination.
"Higher," Kaelor barked, circling like a predator. "Blade level. Back straight."
Soren's muscles screamed as he forced the weighted sword up another inch. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the torchlight that flickered across the training yard.
The iron plates strapped to his limbs had long since transformed from mere weight into instruments of torture, each movement a negotiation between will and collapse.
"Again," Kaelor commanded, his scarred face impassive. "Thrust-parry-riposte. And if your form falters once more, we start from the beginning."
