She ducked, narrowly avoiding the thin needle bolts that zipped past her head. A single hit would be enough to bring her down. The next volley, she collected with a broken piece of wood lying in the sand. Her body felt unusually light, weaving between volleys of needles, ducking and jumping. She dedicated a split second to admire the power of a planned diet and the rigorous reconstitution. One of the animated swords swung towards her. The last time she had been cut, and this time she knew how it would strike. She quickly drew her short sword and deflected the incoming blow, sending the sword spiraling into a nearby pole. From the corner of her eye, she could see the lumber axe coming flying towards her. Using the sword, she sent the clumsily sweeping axe skyward, until it smashed against the roof.

“Okay, that does it for today… Tilia, you need to keep your concentration, the axe represented more of a drunkard being loose in the streets… And the sword had no control…”

“Yes sir…” Her sparring partner sighed and with a wave of her hand, called back the two weapons, which came floating towards her, allowing her to grasp them with ease.

“And you Firran… Keep working on your movement. There are still some street urchin left in you. Your movement must be even more fluid, and in a real fight, you can’t allow yourself to be pinned in a parry for even a second!”

Farsilden’s words stung. She was not used to being berated or instructed. Her work in the sewers had always been rewarded by a speech of praise, or simply dismissed, as a result of lack of prayer, or sacrifice. The feeling of being inadequate made her feel angry, and her expression warped as a result.

“Don’t give me that look… I know where you come from, and who held your leash before… You should be grateful to Lady Ellistin.” His snarky comment made her feel even angrier, and she bared her slightly lacking row of whites to him in a snarl.

“Good. Now Tilia, why don’t you explain the basic rules to Firran?”

“Yes sir.” The short girl nodded once and approached her, weapons still in hand. As soon as the butler was out of earshot, she grinned and threw the weapons away.

“It’s okay big sister, don’t let him get under your skin… It’s his way of hardening us. I respect your devotion to Lady Ellistin… But you have to think of Farce as her left hand, whose job it is to watch over the right one; us.”

“Farce?” Her question was met by Tilia’s wary eyes looking left and right in a hurry.

“It’s his nickname, he really hates it. You could refer to him as the geezer or the old boot too… But never do it to his face! He’ll punch you.”

She tried to stifle a giggle, even with her limited knowledge of words, it felt good to make fun of Farsilden behind his back. The deep animosity she felt lessened.

“Oh! So, you do smile! That’s nice! You know, big sister Carys never smiles, no matter how hard I try, but you smiled just like that!”

Without warning, Tilia jumped forward, wrapped her arms around her, and gave her a big bear-like grasp. Affectionate sounds and big smile in abundance. At first she nearly stumbled from the sudden addition of about her own bodyweight as the merry kid clung to her.

“Um…”

“Oh, too early for hugs? Fine! But get used to it!”

“No… It was nice, thank you.” Her perplexed expression was clearly visible, despite her best attempts to hide it.

“Let’s go wash up and get ready for dinner. Farce hates it if we’re not punctual.”

“Okay… Is there any… Whoa!” Before she could finish, Tilia had taken her hand and begun to drag her along at an unusually fast pace.