Chapter 4: A week of training and learning

Dawn spreads its golden fingers across their training yard, dew glistening on the practice dummies and worn cobblestones. The morning air carries a bite of autumn, causing steam to rise from Aya’s quick breaths as she faces Giroud across the yard. Her dark hair, pulled back in a tight ponytail, catches the early light.

“Remember,” Giroud’s voice cuts through the morning stillness, “your opponent’s size is both advantage and disadvantage.” He circles her slowly, his boots silent on the stones. “Show me how.”

Aya nods, her practice sword held in a middle guard position. The wooden blade, notched from countless hours of training, moves with growing confidence. She studies Giroud’s stance, remembering yesterday’s lessons about reading an opponent’s weight distribution.

Without warning, she darts forward, her smaller frame allowing her to slip beneath Giroud’s guard. Her blade whistles through the air, aimed at his ribs, but he pivots away at the last moment. His counter-strike comes fast, yet Aya’s already rolling past him, using her size to evade.

“Good,” Giroud grunts, genuine approval warming his tone. “But don’t let momentum carry you too far.”

They reset, breath visible in the cool air. The yard fills with the steady rhythm of wood striking wood as they move through increasingly complex sequences.

“Your footwork’s improving,” Giroud notes as Aya successfully navigates a particularly challenging combination. “But remember-”

“Keep my shoulders square,” she finishes with him, a small smile playing at her lips. The shared moment speaks to countless hours of similar corrections, of patience and persistence paying off.

A bell tolls in the distance, marking the hour. Giroud puts down his practice sword, gesturing toward the obstacle course they’d constructed along the eastern wall. Wooden barriers of varying heights, suspended ropes, and staggered posts create a challenging path through the yard.

“Time to work on your speed,” he says, watching Aya’s face light up. This is her favorite part of training - where her natural agility shines.

“Through the course three times,” he instructs, pulling out his timepiece. “Focus on smooth transitions between obstacles. Speed comes from efficiency, not just quick movements.”

Aya takes her position at the starting line, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. Her eyes already map the course ahead, planning each movement. The transformation from eager student to focused warrior happens in an instant - a change that both impresses and saddens Giroud.

“Begin.”

She explodes into motion, clearing the first low barrier with practiced grace. Her young body twists through the air, landing with the silence of a cat. Each movement flows into the next as she weaves between posts, rolls under ropes, and vaults over higher obstacles.

Giroud watches intently, noting how she’s adapted his teachings to suit her size. Where he would power through certain obstacles, she finds ways to use momentum and flexibility to her advantage. It’s not just mimicry - she’s developing her own style. There was something mesmerizing about the way her slender body slipped through spaces and barriers with the grace of a ballerina.

“Again,” he calls as she completes the first run. “This time, imagine you’re being pursued.”

The second run shows more urgency but no loss of control. Aya moves like water around the obstacles, her breathing steady and measured. The third run is her fastest yet, though she maintains the precision Giroud has drilled into her.

“Enough.” He holds up a hand as she prepares for another attempt. “Water break, then we move to knife work.”

They sit on a wooden bench, passing a waterskin between them. The sun has risen higher, burning away the morning mist. In the distance, Whitespire awakens - merchant calls and wagon wheels creating a backdrop to their training.

“You’re learning quickly,” Giroud observes, studying her profile. “Perhaps too quickly.”

Aya lowers the waterskin, her fingers unconsciously tracing the worn leather - so different from the water jug her mother once carried. The memory comes unbidden, like so many others, but she pushes it aside. These skills might have saved them all, if she’d had them then. The thought drives her forward each day, though she’s learned to hide it behind a mask of simple determination.

“Is that bad?” she asks.

“No,” he says slowly, choosing his words with care. “But it reminds me that you’ve had to grow up faster than you should. Sometimes I wonder if I’m helping or...”

“Or making it worse?” she finishes, her voice carrying a weight beyond her years. “You’re not. Before ... I was just angry all the time. Now I know what I’m doing; why I’m fighting.”

The words hang between them, heavy with unspoken truths about loss and survival. Giroud sees the shadows that sometimes cross her young face - memories of her village, her family, the life that was taken from her.

“Show me your knife forms,” Giroud says, standing and retrieving two practice daggers from the weapon rack. The wooden blades are weighted to mimic real steel, their handles worn smooth from use.

Aya catches the tossed dagger with practiced ease, her fingers finding the familiar grip. The morning sun highlights the determination in her face as she settles into her starting stance.

“Begin with the Serpent’s Dance,” Giroud instructs, naming the flowing sequence of movements they’d been perfecting all week. “Remember, the blade is an extension of your arm, not a separate thing.”

Aya moves through the form, her body weaving in precise arcs. The practice dagger traces deadly patterns in the air - strike, parry, thrust, each movement flowing into the next. Giroud circles her, noting the improvement in her balance, the way she keeps her core engaged throughout the sequence.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Now add the counter-strikes we practiced yesterday.”

Without breaking rhythm, Aya incorporates the new movements. Her face shows intense concentration, bottom lip caught between her teeth as she works through the complex pattern. A bead of sweat trails down her temple, but her movements remain precise.

“Enough,” Giroud calls after she completes the sequence. “Now show me how you’d use it against a larger opponent.”

He steps forward, his own practice dagger ready. They circle each other, feet shuffling quietly on the pavement. Aya’s eyes track his movement, searching for openings just as he taught her. The yard fills with the sounds of their controlled breathing and the distant chorus of the awakening city.

Giroud strikes first, a probing attack to test her defense. Aya parries smoothly, using his momentum to slip past his guard. Her counter-attack comes fast - a combination they’d drilled countless times. But instead of following the expected pattern, she adds a variation, nearly catching him off-guard.

“Creative,” he acknowledges, blocking her thrust at the last moment. “But remember-”

“Don’t get overconfident,” they say together, sharing a brief smile before resuming their deadly dance.

The sparring continues, each exchange teaching valuable lessons. Giroud gradually increases the intensity, pushing Aya to adapt and improvise. She meets each challenge with growing confidence, though he can see fatigue beginning to show in her slightly slower reactions.

“Last exchange,” he announces. “Make it count.”

Aya’s eyes narrow in concentration as they reset their positions. This time, she initiates the attack, feinting high before dropping into a roll that brings her inside his reach. Her practice dagger stops just short of his ribs as his blade hovers near her shoulder.

“A draw?” she asks, breathing heavily.

“This time,” Giroud concedes, lowering his weapon. “Though in a real fight, that roll would have left you vulnerable to a kick.”