The iron weight strapped to Soren's forearm felt like it had been forged from a fallen star, impossibly dense and growing heavier with each passing moment.
His shoulders burned, muscles twisting into knots that would take days to unravel.
Twenty repetitions had become thirty, then fifty, then "until I say stop"...which apparently meant until his body betrayed him or the sun burned out, whichever came first.
"Higher," Kaelor barked, circling like a predator. "Edge level, wrist locked. You drop that blade again and I'll add another plate."
Sweat trickled into Soren's eyes, salt stinging worse than the lash of Kaelor's training sword. He blinked it away, refusing to spare even a hand to wipe his face. The last time he'd made that mistake, Kaelor had cracked his practice blade across Soren's knuckles hard enough to leave them swollen for days.
"Footwork," the swordmaster growled, his single eye narrowed to a slit. "You're dragging your heel like a drunken farmer. Again."
