Sorina’s house lies dead center in the housing district, only marginally bigger than the other village residences. It comes equipped with a thatched rooftop, a chimney, and a generally cozy feeling. She drags me over to the place, with Redtail following us from behind.


    “Ignore the mess,” she says, before kicking the door open. Sorina practically throws me in before slamming the door shut and locking it behind her. Redtail whinnies at the sudden noise, tugging slightly on my heart.


    I chuckle upon seeing her ‘mess.’ “And you call me a dog.”


    “Oh be quiet,” she says, stepping over the stacks of notes and papers that litter the floor. Her living room is a dusty maze of books and maps, scrolls and other literature. Some knives hang from the wall, daggers are tipping down from the ceiling like icicles, and a long-spear hangs over the snuffed out fireplace.


    If I set a spark here, this house will be aflame in moments, I realize, shaking my head. I didn’t expect her to be this… messy. It''s not a normal mess either: it''s a paranoid one. She deftly maneuvers around her scroll stacks and books, grabbing a few as she reaches the kitchen.


    “What are you waiting for, follow me,” she orders, heading down her nearly invisible stairway entry in the kitchen’s corner.


    I oblige.


    Down the creaky wooden steps, I enter the stone cave of a basement. Weapons and old clan mementos hang the walls. The crest of Sorayvlad, a large wind spirit fish soaring amidst a storm, hangs in tatters at the far end of the cave. Sparse lights from lamps and strange, magical looking inscriptions along the walls illuminate the room.


    “I’ve never seen this type of magic,” I say, pointing at the inscriptions. She gives the characters a short glance before raising an eyebrow at me.


    “It''s not magic. They’re runic calculus.”


    Runic? “Like, Eldritch Runic?” I ask.


    She shrugs. “That’s a dialect of runic meant for devious things. This is much more tame, yet somehow still hard to reproduce — just ignore it for now, its not like I’m training you in that—”


    “But can you?”


    She drops her stack of books and scrolls on a table in the middle of the basement, knocking over the blades that lay strewn over it. The metal clatters to the floor, echoing throughout the room. I wince at the noise. She does not — it is normal for her to throw things about like this it seems.


    I do not approve. So much chaos — how does one even navigate all of it?


    “I can,” she finally answers, though she says it in such a tone that suggests she simply won’t.


    “Fine. What do you want to teach me today then?” I ask.


    She opens a scroll over all the other papers and smiles, before turning around to show me its contents.


    “This!” she says, unfurling it fully. It is… a diagram. It shows two intricately sketched figures with blank faces, both of them with incredible anatomical detail, interweaving hands with palms facing upward. Their wrists cling to each other and, as the scroll moves down, it indicates that their hands begin to move in some sort of rhythmic, circular, back and forth pattern — all while the wrists continue to cling to each other.


    “What is this? Magicks?” I ask. She shakes her head, rolling up the scroll and tossing it to the side of the room now.


    “No. This is controlled fighting — the art of sticky hands, of eternal spring.”


    I raise an eyebrow. “Which one? Sticky or eternal?”


    “Either or,” she shrugs.


    “I much prefer eternal spring,” I mutter, but she ignores me.


    “Put your hands out,” she orders. I do as she says, trying in particular to imitate the diagram. She walks around me, fixing my stance, my arm positioning and whatnot. It is very quiet here. I can hear every breath she takes — it makes me uncomfortable. “Good. Now, no matter what, keep your wrists in contact with mine.” Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    She stands in front of me and adopts a similar, open-palm stance to me, wrist-to wrist, elbow facing down, hands extended up. Slowly, she begins moving her arms in a circular motion and I follow, keeping my wrists attached to her wrists. It is… not a type of fighting style I’ve ever seen. Perhaps some secret arts of the Sorayvladian clan? Regardless, it amuses me. I think I get the idea though — she’s trying to teach me patience to some degree. This is a deliberate type of martial art, slow and controlled.


    After following her through the circular motions, she ramps up her speed and occasionally feints an attack, merely showing me the movements. She’s so quick at manipulating my hand positioning — I know she has trained this art extensively. One moment she’s at an arm’s length and the next, she presses my hand down and cuts the distance, imitating the motion of delivering a punch to my sternum with her bottom three knuckles.


    We go at this for two hours.


    By the end of it, I am sweating profusely and my arms are tired. She grants me a break after that, and I take it gladly.


    “I thought you’d be a worse student,” she says. “But you’re not stumbling through these drills like a buffoon.”


    I shrug as I take a swill of water from a large basin she keeps in the corner of her basement. “I have never been properly instructed in something before. I have no qualms about throwing out whatever I thought I knew prior because well… the only thing I do know is that I know nothing.”


    “Huh,” is all she says. Then, she slaps me across the back, nearly making me choke on my drink. “Back to it then. We aren’t stopping until you land a proper hit on me.”


    With a sigh, I stand, turn my palms upwards, and get back to it.


    …


    It takes another an hour before I land a clean enough hit to Sorina’s shoulder for her to be satisfied. Meanwhile, during that time, she landed more than a hundred stiff blows against my body. Despite its slow drilling, this art of eternal spring, when in motion, is fast. Sorina can unleash a successive series of six vertical punches before I can throw one. It explains her proficiency with the dagger well enough.


    But I am more curious about her song magicks. Yet, I suspect that if I ask her about this, she will simply dismiss it like she did with runic calculus. I must be patient I suppose — I am only just getting to know this woman.


    “Well, that should be fine enough for one day,” Sorina says after I land the hit. She is sweating as well, but seemingly unperturbed by the pace of our training. “Tomorrow night, you will come to the village and find me before I can find you. If not, we’ll do some body conditioning for you: 100 blows to the chest.”


    “That’s quite a lot,” I groan as I wipe some sweat off my brow with the underside of my shirt.


    “Oh hush now. Good dogs listen to their masters.”


    “I’m not a dog.”


    “You growl like one.”


    “You — you know what? I’m too tired for this. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, waving a hand as I exit her basement.


    “Oh do try your best. But, I think I’m going to enjoy punching you tomorrow — one-hundred blows is not nearly enough for biting my thigh you…” she trails off as I leave, exiting her house. It is the dark hours of night now and the village is quiet as a mouse, save for the tinkling of wind chimes and the steady trickle of well water. Redtail is patiently awaiting me outside. I run my hand along her mane before hoisting myself up on the saddle and galloping away from the village, back to Erot’s farm.


    …


    For the next ten days, I fall into a routine.


    Wake up. Work the farm with Erot.


    Eat brunch late with Erot’s family, thank the heavens for Alya’s cooking.


    Leave Erot’s farm on Redtail, make the ride to Takemeadow.


    Fail to find Sorina. Get ambushed by her. She elicits a new punishment each time I fail and my body becomes a slow mess of bruises.


    Train with her in that dingy basement. Study her old clan diagrams.


    Go back to the farm in the dead hours of night. Wake up at the crack of dawn.


    Repeat.


    Once, I ask Sorina about her song magicks. She ignores me, saying a dog should learn how to fight properly before trying anything else.


    I think I am beginning to hate her teaching methods. She is endlessly teasing, harsh, and demeaning. But, no doubt, she is effective. By day seven I am landing more hits on her. For every six punches she throws, I can match her with three of my own.


    My body strengthens. Farm food is filling and farm life is back-breaking.


    On the tenth day, when I ride into the village, I finally spot Sorina scurrying along the rooftops in her black robes. I manage to lure her into an alleyway before getting the jump on her, springing to the rooftops myself and giving her a proper scare.


    She punishes me for that still.


    I can never win with her.