The first target struck Iven squarely in the chest.
It was a stuffed sack on a hinged timber arm, driven by three people hauling a rope behind the practice wall. He had asked them to change the release interval. They had done so. His plate spread the impact, his boots moved half a pace and the sack left a white flour mark across his coat.
Kesh looked over the wall.
“That counts.”
“I noticed.”
“Some people need it said.”
Iven brushed at the mark and only made it larger.
Sera stood beside the charge board with her arms folded. They had hired the old lifting yard for two morning turns, paying the rope crew instead of borrowing their labor under the name of training. The timber arms had been inspected and their stops padded. This was a place to practice an agreed risk, not to injure a friend because a public fight was approaching.
