Cold, mighty gales blew over the second plateau, their temperature dropping even further with each minute the afternoon crawled through the night.
Liam's robe fluttered to no end, pressing on his body, attempting to hinder his movements. Yet, his gestures remained swift and precise, adding distinct whooshing noises to the cacophony of gales.
The wooden knife in Liam's grasp danced. He thrust, swung, and even let it go mid-air, only to catch it to wield it sideways while performing a new series of specific battle stances.
Once Liam was done, he switched hands, repeating the process so that his inborn proclivity wouldn't become a limit. Being left-handed was no excuse for having no mastery in his right hand.
At least, that was what the stern Disciplinary Elder had said once.
