The morning broke pale and gray, as though the city itself had overslept. Rain had come in the night, washing soot down the gutters and leaving the stones slick as mirrors. From their window, Sorrin could see the steam rising off tram rails, curling in lazy ribbons that caught the first weak sunlight. Solamen wore its hangover honestly.
Sorrin stretched until his shoulders popped, then dropped into push-ups, his palms slipping faintly on the warped boards. Renn's cane tapped a rhythm behind him, like a conductor too polite to point out when the horns were out of tune.
"You've added five since yesterday," Renn said, tilting his head toward Sorrin without opening his eyes. "At this rate, you'll be able to wrestle a bakery oven into submission by the end of the month."
Sorrin grunted. "I'd rather wrestle bread out of it."
"That," Renn said with mock gravity, "is what separates a philosopher from a brute. Both build muscle, but one uses it for philosophy."
Sorrin dropped onto his back, breathing hard, and stared at the ceiling. "And what exactly is your philosophy, Renn? Eat enough pastry to become immovable?"
Renn smiled faintly. "A man who cannot be moved has already won half his battles."
There was no real heat in the banter. These mornings had become routine—Flow practice for Sorrin, followed by conditioning drills that left his body aching but steadier. He'd learned enough control over the blessing to coax out small roots on command, no longer just accidents. It was not mastery, but it was progress. And now, as Renn had insisted, he needed to train the body that carried the gift.
A revolver would not help him pass the Academy's entrance exams. Sorrin had grumbled about that once, only for Renn to deliver a line so deadpan he nearly choked on his coffee: "Imagine their faces when you pistol-whip your way to graduation."
The words haunted Sorrin every time he tied his boots.
By midday, they were in the practice yard of a smith they barely knew, a gruff man who tolerated their presence in exchange for cleaning the soot out of his chimneys once a week. The yard smelled of iron and sweat, its walls lined with battered dummies that had taken more abuse than the cobblestones outside.
Sorrin stood with a wooden practice sword in hand. It felt heavier than the revolver, less an extension of his will and more an argument with gravity. He slashed at the air a few times, awkwardly, then glanced at Renn.
"You sure this is worth it? I could just punch people."
"Punching works," Renn admitted. He leaned against the wall, cane balanced across his knees. "But swords have a certain… credibility. Punching is a bar fight. A sword is a statement. Besides, the Academy will expect you to know at least the basics. They do not hand diplomas to men who can only reload quickly."
Sorrin scowled. "Reloading quickly has saved my life more than once."
"And yet here you are," Renn said with a shrug. "Alive enough to hold a stick and complain about it."
Sorrin tightened his grip on the practice sword and swung again, this time at one of the straw dummies. The blade thudded against it and bounced off awkwardly. His arms buzzed from the impact.
"Feels like trying to chop a tree down with a spoon."
"That is called feedback," Renn said, amused. "The sword is telling you that you have no rhythm. Listen to it."
Sorrin growled, but he tried again. And again. Each strike came down harder, angrier, until sweat plastered his shirt to his back and his hands ached from the rough wood.
"You're stiff," Renn said after a while. "Every strike looks like an apology. Try moving with the blow, not against it."
Sorrin glared. "Easy for you to say, sitting over there like a smug oracle."
"You're right," Renn said lightly. "I should come over there, take the stick, and show you how it's done. Except, you know—" He gestured vaguely with the cane.
That pulled a reluctant laugh out of Sorrin. He reset his stance, tried to picture the sword not as a weapon but as another limb. This time, when he struck, the blade flowed smoother. Still clumsy, but less like he was arguing with the air.
Renn nodded once. "Better. Not good, but better. And better is the only direction worth walking."
They broke for water when the sun began to clear the rooftops. Sorrin sat on the steps, chest heaving, while Renn leaned beside him, face lifted toward the warmth he could not see.
"You know," Renn said, "you're lucky. Most people discover Flow late and waste years fumbling. You have it early enough to train with it, shape it alongside your body. By the time we get to the Academy, you might even pass as competent."
"High praise," Sorrin muttered.
"Competence is a compliment in Solamen," Renn said. "Mediocrity keeps you alive. Excellence makes enemies."
Sorrin sipped water and let the words settle. Renn had a way of slipping truth into conversation like sugar into tea. Easy to swallow, harder to forget.
After a long moment, Sorrin asked, "You really think I'll be ready?"
Renn's smile was thin but genuine. "You will be ready enough. And the rest we improvise. That's what makes you dangerous, Sorrin. Not the Flow, not the revolver. It's the way you never stop moving, even when you have no idea where the path goes."
Sorrin wanted to argue, but the words lodged somewhere between pride and doubt. Instead, he finished his water and stood again.
"Alright. Show me how to stop apologizing with this thing."
The afternoon unfolded into drills. Sorrin learned footwork—awkward steps that tripped him more than once, earning chuckles from a passing apprentice who had paused to watch. He practiced guards and parries, each one feeling like a foreign language spoken with the wrong accent. Renn narrated corrections from the wall, sometimes sharp, sometimes laced with humor sharp enough to draw blood.
At one point, Sorrin lost patience and jabbed the sword forward like a spear. The dummy's head lurched sideways, straw spilling out.
"See?" Sorrin said, triumphant. "Efficient."
"Yes," Renn said dryly. "Stab them all in the eye. Brilliant strategy. Until you meet someone taller than the dummy, at which point you'll be politely beheaded."
Sorrin rolled his eyes and reset. "Maybe I'll just bring the revolver anyway. Imagine the looks on their faces when I pass the sword exam with six bullets."
Renn smirked. "Yes, the Academy loves innovation. Especially when it comes with gunpowder."
They both laughed, the sound echoing strangely against the yard's walls. For a moment, training felt less like drudgery and more like something alive.
By evening, Sorrin's arms shook with every motion, but his strikes no longer wobbled like drunken swings. They had weight now. Not grace, not yet, but weight. Enough that he could feel the promise of what might come if he kept at it.
Renn stood as Sorrin lowered the sword for the last time, his cane tapping the stones. "You'll live through the exam," he said. "Not elegantly, not beautifully. But you'll live. And that is always the point."
Sorrin dropped onto the steps again, sweat dripping from his jaw. "Feels like I've been living through exams my whole life."
Renn chuckled. "That is what life is, Sorrin. Endless exams with no grades, only scars."