Griff's class ran long.
It always ran long, to be fair. The old dwarf had a habit of getting sidetracked by his own stories, and today's detour was about a chimera he'd fought thirty years ago that had, apparently, sneezed acid on his boots. Ashara sat through it with her chin on her hand, knee bouncing under the desk.
[Come on. Come on, come on, come on.]
She wanted to move. Her body wanted to move.
Ever since the session with Celeste, there was this itch under her skin that wouldn't go away, the need to run through the combos again, to feel that flow where every step fed the next one and every punch landed clean. She'd been drilling on her own during free hours, running through the sequences in the training yard until her knuckles ached, and it still wasn't enough. She wanted Celeste watching, correcting, pushing.
Training had never been fun before. Hard, yes. Necessary, sure. But now it was fun, and that changed everything.
