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Fenna moved first, losing an arrow with quick precision. Zephyr ducked beneath it and rolled forward, hatchet low, blade angled to feint. She sidestepped and snapped a second shot, this one grazing his shoulder. Zephyr countered with a lunging sweep of his leg, catching her ankle. She stumbled back—but not far. Her bow flipped into a blocking arc, catching the downswing of his hatchet.
Steel kissed the wood. The sound rang through the trees. They broke apart, reset positions.
Again.
And again.
Over the next hour, they were spared through drills—speed runs, feints, counter-blades, arrow timing, side rolls, leg sweeps. Zephyr's shirt grew damp with sweat. Fenna's braid stuck to her cheek. Both of them bore streaks of dirt and dye.
Star watched in silence. So did Emberling.
The chick's head tilted with each exchange. Her eyes tracked every dodge, every strike, every counter. Occasionally, she chirped softly when Zephyr fell or Fenna scored a hit.
