A wooden practice sword whistled through the mountain mist, embedding its blunt oak tip three inches into the grotto gatepost.
Leaves showered from the overhanging wisteria. Kaelen Vance did not spill a single drop of his roasted barley tea. He sat on the edge of the low porch, wearing his faded grey bathrobe with the hem tucked neatly over his wool slippers.
“On your feet, boy!” Elder Sterling roared from the stone courtyard.
The old sword master stood with his gray topknot fraying in the damp breeze. His blue robes snapped as crackles of white thunder-fire danced across his knuckles. Even with a cracked dantian, his Golden Core Peak aura made the gravel pebbles tremble against the porch steps.
“Patriarch Morvane has three war-sloops anchored at the southern river fork,” Sterling barked, pointing a scarred finger toward the valley. “His enforcers are probing the perimeter right now. You are going to practice the One-Draw Thunder Sword until your forearms stop shaking.”
Kaelen took a slow sip of tea. The roasted barley was warm and nutty, perfectly suited for doing nothing.
“Good morning, Elder,” Kaelen said. “The wisteria looks lovely today.”
“Don’t talk to me about flowers!” Sterling took two long strides across the courtyard, stamping his iron-shod boots into the flagstones. “Draw your blade. Forty repetitions of the overhead strike before breakfast. Move!”
