4
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“Gone soft on me, Ranger.” Garrett holds back for a half second, enough so I can get my balance. Spinning, I duck the oncoming wooden staff and come up with a short sword in one hand and a quarterstaff in the other.
The wood gleams under the arena’s high track lighting. When I first initiated, we exercised in the ground-level garage. Back then it was with inflatable swords and pool noodles. Twelve years later, Garrett’s bought half of the penthouse units with their fourteen-foot-high ceilings and done a deep remodel, knocking down walls so that the training arena is the length of three complete units. And, of course, pool noodles no longer.
“And just how,” I answer through gritted teeth, “can you tell whether I’ve ‘gone soft’ when you’ve treated the weapons?”
I beat
