The three weeks in the military branch of the Blood Court passed like a gust of wind.
The sun, or what passed for a sun beneath the dark clouds of the Northern Territory, rose and set, and Kyrian was there at every dawn, standing at the center of the training platform, waiting for his twenty disciples.
They arrived out of breath, some still adjusting their robes, others already with their hands wrapped, ready for training. None were late. In the first week, two had arrived late. Kyrian did not shout at them. He did not punish them. He only looked into their eyes for a long second, and they were never late again.
Kyrian could not teach Court techniques, after all, he did not use any, and they would not learn much in three weeks.
Techniques took months to be mastered, and years to be perfected. What he could teach was more fundamental. More important.
He could teach how to fight.
