( James Vellaroux's POV )
The blade stopped less than an inch from my throat.
"Dead."
I looked at the sword.
Then at Father.
"I noticed."
Duke Vellaroux withdrew the blade.
"Again."
Good.
I tightened my grip.
My palms were raw enough that the leather wrapping on my sword felt unpleasant against them.
Sweat ran down my face.
My shirt clung to my back.
My legs were beginning to feel heavier than they should.
We had been fighting for almost two hours.
Father barely looked tired.
I hated that.
Not him.
The fact.
I stepped back into position.
Left foot forward.
Sword lowered.
Weight balanced.
Father didn't move.
Instead, he lowered his weapon.
"Enough."
I frowned.
"You said again."
"I changed my mind."
"You never change your mind during training."
"I do when continuing becomes useless."
That was worse than losing.
"Again."
"No."
"Father."
"Your left leg is slowing."
"I can continue."
"Your spatial transitions have become uneven."
"I can continue."
