Seyun stepped back out of the limewashed storeroom into the pale courtyard sun. Then, Daro Kesh was still standing four paces from the frame stand bench with his weight settled evenly on both heels, as unrushed as if he had been waiting ten breaths instead of five minutes. Near the porch, Ilyra had not lowered her spear, while by the gate the burial house master and the young apprentice Lorn watched from behind a stack of split birchwood.
Seyun walked back to the stone bench and set Mina’s brass sand-glass upright beside the cut black wool sleeve of the bandit leader. The fine white river-sand began to trickle through the narrow glass waist. Then, Daro glanced down at it, then raised his eyes to Seyun’s face.
“Your sister is a sensible healer,” Daro remarked. “Did she tell you that a boy who reached Flame yesterday afternoon has no business crossing iron with a ten-year Bronze?”
“She told me that if I try to trade blows with your sword-plane in a standard bout to incapacitation, my new solar-nerve web turn will rupture before the tenth breath,” Seyun replied without pause.
One of the caravan guards by the wagon shed let out a surprised grunt. Cultivational duels in the valley almost always began with both fighters boasting of unbroken spirit veins and hidden reserves. Even Daro Kesh’s weathered eyebrows lifted by a fraction of an inch at hearing his opponent recite his own test vulnerability in the open yard.
