The combat yard is a whole world away from the hushed, meticulous exercises of the strategy classroom. No intricate wooden maps here, no contemplative silence. Just the punishing rhythm of boots scuffing stone, the sharp c***k of weapon on weapon, and the grunts and curses of bodies straining against each other. My shoulders tense the instant I step onto the stone-flagged yard, a practice staff slick and awkward in my sweating palms. On paper, I can outmaneuver anyone. Here, where the only thing that matters is muscle and instinct I might as well be a lamb tossed to wolves.
Everywhere I look, boys are already warming up, their bodies settling into fighting stances like it’s as natural as breathing. Most of them probably trained for this from the time they could crawl, boys circling each o
