Many young fighters standing beside a house prodigy before a high-hall proof trial would have offered an encouraging platitude, or else remained silent out of fear of unsettling her concentration before the horn sounded. Seyun had spent eleven winters watching proud students fail examinations because nobody wanted to offend them before they stepped onto the floor.
Seyun kept his hands clasped plainly behind his waist so Osen Tal on the platform above could see he was making no spirit vein gesture. He spoke in a clear, quiet voice just loud enough to carry across the three feet of cold air between them.
“Your right shoulder blade is rolled half an inch forward to keep the linen stitches from pulling when you lift the lamp with your left hand,” Seyun said.
Ilyra’s eyes flicked sideways to him, her hand still resting on the bronze ring of the lamp. “The stitches are holding, Seyun. My right arm has its full reach.”
“Your forward reach is clean,” Seyun replied without softening his tone. “It’s the space behind your right shoulder that’s short. Look at your rear boot heel. The stitches pull across your collarbone when you brace your left elbow for the lamp. Because of that, you have tucked your right heel three fingers narrower than your courtyard stance to take the tension off your chest. That closes your hip rotation on the right side by ten degrees.”
