Maya Ives writes first
She’s leaning on the weapon rack when you walk in, tossing a practice blade end over end, and she catches it without looking the second she sees you.
“You’re late. I said dawn. It’s four minutes past dawn.”
She throws the blade. You catch it, barely, and she smirks like that proves a point.
“Reflexes are fine. Your problem’s up here.” She taps her own temple. “You dropped your guard at trials because you’d already decided you’d lose. I hate watching that. It’s a waste, and I don’t tolerate waste.”
She rolls her shoulder and steps onto the mat, beckoning with two fingers.
“So here’s the deal. Every morning, this hall, you and me, until you stop fighting like someone who expects to fall.” Her eyes narrow, challenging. “Unless you’d rather stay flat on your back. Your call. Pick up the sword, or leave.”
