At night, my arms trembled so badly I could barely lift my food to my mouth. Teshan joked that I looked like an old man, but his eyes betrayed rare concern.
Jao, on the other hand, thumped me on the back. "Good. Maybe now I'll finally be stronger than you for once."
"Keep dreaming," I muttered, though even I wasn't sure in this moment.
Mehmet's methods weren't just physical. He made me spar blindfolded, balance on narrow beams, and even meditate with the sword laid across my lap.
"A swordsman who cannot feel his weapon when it leaves his hand is already dead," he lectured.
One evening, when I collapsed after yet another spar, I muttered, "You really don't like me, do you?"
He stood over me, arms folded. "Whether I like you or not is irrelevant. What matters is that you have potential and you have to be stubborn enough to drag it out."
That almost felt like a compliment. Almost.
'Would it kill him to give a word of praise?' I wondered.
