The training yard behind the Hearth used to be a neglected garden, all faded lavender and broken sundials. Now the hedges were trimmed, the stones reset, and tall wooden screens kept curious eyes away. Instead of birdsong, the winter air carried the steady ring of steel.
I faced the training dummy with a fencing sword in hand, my breath clouding in front of me. Harroway paced nearby in a dark coat, arms folded, expression unreadable.
“Your stance,” he said. “Again.”
I shifted my feet.
He sighed. “No. You’re standing like you expect a painter to capture your noble suffering. Not like someone trying to stay alive.”
“I am a noblewoman,” I muttered, stabbing again—off balance.
“And you want to survive? Then stop acting like glassware.” He stepped up, adjusted my shoulder, his grip firm.
