Ten strikes. For rudeness and a dull blade.
In the disciplinary yard's frigid air, Kaelen's voice cracked. Tall, slender fifteen-year-old Ewan shook so badly that his tattered shirt waved. His practice sword blade was shattered and dull and laying on the ground. Minor error. Very mean sentence.
They formed a terrifying, loose circle. Everyone was disciplined. Learning was for everyone.
Ewan's wide, white eyes betrayed his fear. He was good with flowers and not guns; his father was a kitchen runner. Advanced blade drill wasn't necessary. Someone placed him there to fail.
My dad stood stone-faced near Kaelen. He agreed with the punishment by not speaking.
Hask, a whip master, uncoiled it. It was a hideous leather braid with iron spikes. It's supposed to mark, not kill.
Ewan choked and
