He opened his eyes again, exhaling a thin, measured breath. The courtyard had gone quiet, save for the soft rustle of wind through the mist. Asher rested his palm on the hilt of his sword and began tracing invisible cuts through the air—slow, deliberate, each motion a correction to something he'd seen in their earlier sparring.
"Too wide," he murmured, adjusting his stance, recalling Maxwell's overreaching lunge. He stepped into the strike, shortening the swing until it became efficient—sharp, controlled, no wasted motion."Don't chase the opening," he said under his breath, as though his cousin stood before him again. "Create it."
