The clearing lay just beyond the southern edge of Nashkel, where the last line of trees gave way to uneven grass and scattered stones. Morning light had burned away the lingering mist, leaving the air warm but not yet heavy with the day's heat.
It was quiet here.
Quiet enough that the sounds of town—wagon wheels, distant voices, the clatter of tools—faded into something indistinct. The world seemed to breathe more slowly outside the village.
Rasaad stood across from me at the center of the clearing.
Without armor the air felt cooler against my skin. My sword resided beside a low stone near the edge of the grass.
Without it, the space between us felt strangely different—less like a battlefield, more like something deliberate.
Imoen sat off to the side, cross-legged in the grass. She leaned back on her hands, watching with an expression somewhere between curiosity and amusement.
"Well," she said lightly, "this oughta be fun."
Rasaad looked toward her.
"We are not here for spectacle."
Imoen grinned.
"Oh, I know. But if he falls over again, I'm absolutely laughing."
I ignored her.
Mostly.
Across from me, Rasaad shifted his stance, feet settling into the earth with quiet precision.
"Before speed," he said, "there must be foundation."
He gestured toward my feet.
"Your stance."
I adjusted it.
Or tried to.
He stepped forward and nudged my ankle with his bare foot.
"No. Your weight is forward."
I corrected it again.
"That feels the same," I said.
"That is because you are thinking about where you should stand," he replied. "Not where your body is."
I breathed out.
The grass stirred faintly under the morning breeze.
For a moment, the scene felt almost unreal.
Not long ago I had been sitting beneath fluorescent lights in a cubicle that hummed faintly with overworked electronics.
Endless spreadsheets.
Emails.
Tasks that existed mostly to justify the existence of other tasks.
And somewhere in that life, there had been the slow collapse of something that had once mattered.
My girlfriend—former girlfriend now—standing in the doorway of the apartment with a tired expression.
"We're just… not going anywhere."
At the time, the words had felt like the end of something important.
Standing here now, barefoot in a clearing outside Nashkel, preparing to be thrown into the grass by a monk from Kara-Tur, the memory felt strangely distant.
Smaller.
The life I had once thought was everything now felt narrower than the space between the trees around us.
Rasaad studied my stance again.
"Better."
Then he stepped forward.
"Strike."
I hesitated.
"You want me to—"
"Strike."
So I did.
My arm moved forward with what I thought was reasonable speed.
Rasaad caught my wrist almost casually.
He didn't grip hard.
He simply redirected the motion.
Suddenly the ground rushed up to meet me.
I landed in the grass with a dull thump.
Imoen burst into laughter.
"Okay," she said, clapping once. "That one definitely counted."
I pushed myself up.
"That was faster than it looked."
Rasaad offered a hand and pulled me back to my feet.
"You commit your weight too quickly," he said.
"Most people do."
"That sounded like a polite way of saying I'm bad at this."
Rasaad shook his head.
"You fight like someone who has learned fear recently."
That gave me pause.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he said, "that you move as though every exchange must end immediately."
He stepped back into position.
"Fear encourages speed. Discipline encourages patience."
I brushed grass from my shirt.
"Alright," I muttered. "Let's try that again."
We did.
The second attempt lasted longer.
I managed to keep my footing through the first exchange.
Rasaad redirected another strike, guiding my arm past him rather than stopping it outright.
I tried to adjust.
For a moment—brief but real—I thought I had him.
Then he pivoted.
My balance vanished.
I stumbled forward, barely catching myself before hitting the ground again.
Imoen whistled.
"That one almost looked intentional!"
I shot her a look.
"You're supposed to be supportive."
"I am!" she said cheerfully. "Supportively observing."
Rasaad waited for me to regain my footing.
"Again."
We reset.
Strike.
Redirect.
Adjustment.
The movements began to make more sense—not faster, but clearer.
Sweat gathered along the back of my neck.
The grass beneath our feet flattened under repeated steps.
Eventually one exchange ended with me still standing.
Rasaad stepped back.
"Better."
Imoen stretched where she sat.
"You might survive a tavern brawl someday," she called.
I wiped sweat from my forehead.
"High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head."
The breeze shifted.
Imoen's attention drifted toward the tree line.
Her expression changed.
Not alarmed.
Just curious.
"Hey," she said after a moment.
Rasaad and I paused.
"What is it?" I asked.
She tilted her head toward the trees.
"I thought I saw someone."
I followed her gaze.
The trees stood still and quiet.
For a moment the wind dropped entirely. The leaves stopped moving.
Then the branches stirred again as the breeze returned.
No one stood among them.
"Probably a traveler," I said.
Nashkel's roads saw plenty of traffic.
Merchants.
Hunters.
Adventurers.
Rasaad glanced toward the forest.
"The roads near this village are seldom empty."
Imoen squinted a moment longer.
Then shrugged.
"Maybe."
Whatever she thought she had seen, it was gone.
Rasaad turned back to me.
"One more exchange."
I nodded.
We stepped forward again.
This time the motions felt steadier.
Not faster.
Just clearer.
I struck.
Rasaad redirected.
I adjusted.
For a moment the balance held.
Then he lightly tapped my shoulder and stepped away.
The motion broke my stance.
But I didn't fall.
We both stopped.
Silence settled across the clearing again.
Imoen stood and brushed grass from the back of her trousers.
"Well," she said, "that looked less disastrous than the beginning."
I exhaled.
My arms felt heavier than they had an hour ago.
But my mind felt quieter.
Rasaad waited patiently.
"Thanks," I said after a moment.
"For the lesson."
"It was my pleasure."
I rolled my shoulders once.
"It helps."
"With what?"
I glanced toward the trees, though I wasn't really looking at them.
"Not getting stuck in my own head."
Rasaad folded his hands loosely.
"The mind seeks storms," he said.
"The body prefers stillness."
I considered that.
Imoen stepped between us.
"Alright," she announced.
"If the philosophy hour is over, I vote we go find food."
She pointed toward Nashkel.
"I've been sitting here watching him fall over for half the morning. I deserve breakfast."
I snorted.
"Fair."
We gathered our things near the stone at the edge of the clearing.
Behind us, the trees remained still.
Quiet.
Near the tree line, the grass bent slightly, as though someone had stood there not long ago.
Somewhere beyond the trees, the watcher withdrew into the forest.