Dawn put a cold blue on the yard. A clay bowl of water sat on a post. Beside it, a shallow pan of ash and three thin brass chimes on a thread. A paper flag hung from a nail to show any breath of air that did not come from wind.
"Water for pressure, ash for anger, chimes for spill," Estaron said. "Keep the surface flat, the ash gray, the chimes quiet, and the flag still."
Reyik stood barefoot on packed earth. New skin tugged across the slash on his chest. Old scars kept their own counsel. He set his stance, weight low, blade sheathed at his hip.
"In," Estaron said. "Hold. Out."
Reyik breathed until everything narrowed to a surface, a color, a silence, and a scrap of cloth that did not move. Estaron stepped in and placed a memory on the table between them.
"You called for help," Estaron said. "No one came."
A quiver crossed the water. Reyik stepped back at once. Thumb to the silver ring. The warmth that anger wanted to pull into the air bled away. What stayed was a small, clean pressure inside bone and muscle, ready but leashed.
"Again," Estaron said.
The sun lifted a pale rim over the wall. The bowl told the truth. When a thought grabbed at him, the ash browned. When he named the feeling, the ash went gray. When sorrow tried to flood the yard, the chimes made a soft kiss of sound and he pulled the field tight until they were still.
Estaron tossed a leather ball without pattern. Reyik caught it while the water stayed flat. He added footwork. Catch on the slip, set the heel, reset his line. The flag stayed still. The chimes did not sing.
"Blade," Estaron said.
Wooden practice swords came out. Estaron opened with a straight cut to test guard. Reyik met it, let steel slide, then used Ghost Parry, two fingers on the flat to rob the strike of confidence. Estaron's blade shaved cloth instead of skin. Reyik did not smile. He turned his wrist and took center again.
"You are not a wall," Estaron said. "You are a decision."
They worked binds and breaks until sweat ran into Reyik's eyes. Each time Estaron tried to crowd him, Reyik used Slipstep, half a step and a breath, and the thrust chose a new line by the width of two coins. When Estaron forced a clinch, Reyik answered with Stillhook, forearm to wrist, a tiny pull, a balance stolen. No dome, no glow, no rescue field. Only small corrections he paid for with attention.
By noon his shoulders burned. The bowl still lay quiet. The ash stayed gray. The chimes had not moved in an hour.
Sera watched from the fence, a strip of cloth tied above her brow. Bor joined her with a mug that smelled like a dare.
"He is lighter," Sera said. "The warmth leaves him faster."
"Good," Bor said. "I prefer my eyebrows attached."
Estaron stopped the drill and passed a skin of water. "What you are doing now changes only the space your body can touch," he said. "Later, if you earn it, that space will grow. Do not plan for later. Today is your arms' length."
Reyik nodded. He did not ask for more. He touched the ring once and let his hand fall.
When night brought the forge glow, he took a bowl of stew to the steps to cool. Sera sat beside him without asking, the spear set across her knees.
"You fight like you already know where a blade will not be," she said.
"I try to decide where it cannot land," he said.
"Convenient," she said. "For me."
He looked at her, open for once. "You make fear look smaller," he said.
She held the look and did not look away first. "You say that like a line you would carve into stone."
"I would if the stone asked nicely," he said.
"Careful," she said. "I might start asking."
They ate in the quiet that happens when people trust the person beside them to keep watch without being asked. Far off, city lights pricked the dark. The paper flag by the post did not move.