Breakfast, then tactics, then, unexpected, a summons to the armory annex for "refined practicals." Which, Soren learned, meant real steel, dulled only at the tip; everything else was actual metal and mass. A rare privilege, usually because someone wanted to watch the reactions up close.
The armory master, a one-eyed veteran named Verrin, distributed the weapons himself. Most took the issued blade with no complaint, but Soren held the new weapon in his palm for a long, silent moment, testing the balance, the lay of the hilt, the way the light caught on the battered crossguard.
"Feel heavy?" Verrin asked.
Soren shook his head. "Feels like a warning."
Verrin's mouth creased as if to smile, but didn't. "That's the right answer."
Dane and two other instructors lined the perimeter of the annex, eyes on every spar as the cohort clashed steel-on-steel. The sound changed everything; the metallic ring was sharper, more final, less forgiving of overreach or error.
