Before a single practice stroke was exchanged in the dawn chill of the oldest yard, the three people who knew Seyun’s habits and weaknesses best arranged themselves around the flat stone slabs, each establishing a hard boundary that he wouldn’t be allowed to ignore.
Ilyra walked to the northern granite wall and grounded the iron butt of her spear on the dry coping stone, positioning herself where she could see both the line of Seyun’s spine and the angle of his hands. “I’m not entering the ring with you today, Seyun,” she said, her voice clear in the quiet enclosure. “Because the echo in your chest came from my vow at the snow bridge, fighting against my spear directly would invite your channels to imitate my branching wake instead of forming your own Bronze focus. I’m supervising one thing only: whether the shape you form answers a real protective decision, or merely copies a stance you learned in this yard.”
Daro Kesh walked to the center of the worn flat stone slabs. He set the low three-legged wooden stool down two paces behind Seyun’s right heel. Then he placed the wide glazed baked-clay medicine bowl on top of it. Daro took a wooden bucket from the corner well-head. He poured cold, clear spring water into the baked-clay bowl until the liquid stood within a quarter-inch of the glazed rim. It trembled slightly in the morning breeze.
