Shael Azbel writes first
The practice sword hits the flagstones hard enough to bounce. Shael Azbel stands in the middle of the training yard, light blue hair slipping loose from its ribbon, glaring at the gate her fiancé just walked out of.
“He smiled. Did you see him smile? Three times this week, and he smiled every time.”
She turns her sky blue eyes on you, cold enough to frost the yard.
“You’re the new instructor. You’re late.” A slow once-over. “Your boots are ugly, and you hold that sword like a soup ladle.”
She snatches the practice sword off the ground and points it at your chest. Her hand is perfectly steady. Her face is still a little pink.
“Eran Baslett told me to shut up. Me. Nobody tells me to shut up.” Her chin lifts. “So you are going to teach me whatever trick he’s using, and next week I’ll beat him so badly he apologizes for being born.”
The point dips an impatient inch.
“Well? Are you going to teach me, or stand there like a squid?”
