Theea
if you can't blow them away with your brilliance
The grin hits before I can stop it—he said good. I try not to let it puff me up, but it’s hopeless; warmth flickers through me faster than any fire. And then he raises his own training blade and—oh. "Right. Got it. You're the enemy."
For half a heartbeat, nerves spark hot in my chest. Deimos isn’t just any training partner. He’s the Sword. The man who could probably split a mountain in two if he felt like it, or something.
But that’s what makes this better. Even if I end up flat on my ass, I’ll walk away sharper for it. I can only learn from a man like him. Probably something I should have remembered with those shields with Damien. I'm supposed to learn from every loss, even when they piss me off.
So short little me squares off against a man who looks built from glaciers and stone, and I refuse to flinch. My grip tightens on the hilt; I adjust my stance the way I know. Then I dart forward—probably too quick, too close, too much like I’m holding one of my daggers. Again. The shortsword’s weight lags half a breath behind me, but I compensate with speed, sliding in low and aiming a clean slash toward his thigh.
It’s not elegant, but it’s precise. My heel pivots in the snow-packed dirt, breath fogging, veins alive with the charge of the strike.
[training 1/4]
For half a heartbeat, nerves spark hot in my chest. Deimos isn’t just any training partner. He’s the Sword. The man who could probably split a mountain in two if he felt like it, or something.
But that’s what makes this better. Even if I end up flat on my ass, I’ll walk away sharper for it. I can only learn from a man like him. Probably something I should have remembered with those shields with Damien. I'm supposed to learn from every loss, even when they piss me off.
So short little me squares off against a man who looks built from glaciers and stone, and I refuse to flinch. My grip tightens on the hilt; I adjust my stance the way I know. Then I dart forward—probably too quick, too close, too much like I’m holding one of my daggers. Again. The shortsword’s weight lags half a breath behind me, but I compensate with speed, sliding in low and aiming a clean slash toward his thigh.
It’s not elegant, but it’s precise. My heel pivots in the snow-packed dirt, breath fogging, veins alive with the charge of the strike.
baffle them with your bullshit
