Twelve pages.
That was as far as he'd gotten, and even calling it "getting somewhere" was generous. It wasn't twelve pages of actual understanding. It was twelve pages of recognizable script, a handful of identified words, and an ever-growing list of patterns he'd been painstakingly mapping against the Silver Wood glossary he'd found buried in the Academy library.
He'd been taking notes in the margins. His handwriting looked almost crude next to the elegant original text, but he didn't care. These were the notes of someone learning to fight in a new style, breaking down the fundamental structures first before worrying about grace. Identify what holds everything up, then build outward. That was how he learned everything.
The book was sitting on his table when Isole knocked on his door.
