She moved. She took one step.
It was smooth and grounded.
Her arm lifted, the metal blade in her hand aligning with invisible points only she could see.
Another step. and then a sharp turn.
The white followed her like a whisper—trailing, flowing, cutting through the air with her.
Her movements were clean, and controlled, not deadly.
It didn't look like practice. It looked like a performance.
No...
It was like a ritual.
Each motion precise. Each strike deliberate. No wasted energy. No unnecessary flourish.
And yet…
There was beauty in it.
A quiet, mesmerizing elegance—like watching a dance carved from instinct and discipline.
Shay's eyes widened, her earlier impatience dissolving into awe.
Even the air seemed to still.
Because beneath that grace, was something else. Something sharper.
This wasn't imitation. It wasn't play. Wasn't something learned for show.
This was instinct refined into art.
Because, unlike the little girl who dreamed of being a warrior—
