Memory
The rain made the ground beneath Sylvin’s bare feet slippery, plastered his trousers to his skin making motion difficult, and ran in rivulets from the hair that fell over his face. His palms were blistered from their grip on the soaked leather handle of the heavy sword, and his arms and shoulders ached from holding it aloft.
Around him, many of the young men’s grips slipped, their weapons falling from arms grown numb from the long training session in the rains, or the mud slickened their steps, causing them to stumble and fall. Some got up, reclaimed their swords, and tried to keep going, others lay in the mud with the rain washing over them, too exhausted to move.
Sylvin gritted his teeth, snarled his expression, and persevered, digging deep within himself for endurance.
