The children whispered nervously at the glade's edge.
"Why aren't they moving?" Caleth muttered, shifting from foot to foot.
"Shh," Teren hissed. "It's… it's like they're waiting to hear each other."
Ashwing, sprawled on Lindarion's shoulder, flicked his tail idly and yawned. But inside Lindarion's mind his voice chirped, sharp with excitement: 'He's gonna poke first. I can feel it. He's waiting to see if you flinch. Don't flinch.'
'I never do,' Lindarion replied silently.
And he didn't.
The teacher struck first.
The staff whistled through the air, a clean arc aimed low toward Lindarion's shin. It wasn't fast, not by Lindarion's standards, but it was precise, measured to test balance, not cripple.
Lindarion shifted only an inch. His heel lifted, weight transferring to the ball of his foot, the strike passing beneath as though the world itself bent to miss him. Not a wasted movement. Not even a ripple of effort in his breath.
