The air was still damp with morning dew when Luck hit the dirt—again.
He grunted as his back smacked the cold ground, the wind punched out of him. His wooden blade skittered off into the grass.
They were situated a decent distance away from Low spire, far enough not to smell it's...unique scent or hear the morning noise but not too far from it's view- at least according to Rook. The distance from their current training grounds to the city was convient Rook told him, since it was almost exactly 2 miles, allowing him to observe my attempts at running at full speed and determining how much stamina I had.
In the end it was concluded that I was above average in speed and stamina, completing the full length in about 9 minutes.
"Dead," Rook said plainly, standing over him with his arms crossed. "Again."
Luck sat up, coughing and wiping mud from his face. "You said pivot." He rolled onto his side, catching his breath "I pivoted."
"You twisted your whole body like a falling tree. Pivoting means keeping your stance grounded and turning on your back foot."
Rook walked over and nudged the blade toward him with a boot. Luck groped for it in the grass, fingers brushing across the worn wood.
"I can't see where your strikes are coming from," he muttered.
"You're not supposed to," Rook replied. "You're supposed to feel them. Listen. Track my movements. You've got better ears than anyone I know—use them."
Luck stayed quiet. He hated how easy Rook made it sound.
Rook took a few slow steps around him, circling deliberately. "When I move left, you'll hear the shift in the grass. When I raise the blade, there's tension in the air. When I strike, the wind breaks. You don't need eyes, Luck—you need awareness."
Luck stood up and took a wary stance, feet spread, shoulders tight.
"Stand up straight," Rook barked. "and hold that damn sword properly, you might as well be choking it with how tight your holding it."
Luck adjusted his grip, loosening just enough for the sword to shift slightly in his palm. He exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched. Every correction felt like a slap, not because Rook was wrong—but because he wasn't.
"There," Rook said, circling him like a hawk. "Better. Still sloppy, but better."
Luck didn't answer. He focused on the weight of the blade, the way it balanced in his hand, the sound of Rook's boots pressing into the dirt. The breeze shifted—barely—and Luck's shoulders tensed.
Left side.
Rook didn't warn him. He never did. Luck heard the rush of movement and stepped into a pivot, swinging the wooden sword up clumsily.
Crack!
The blades met. Luck stumbled but didn't fall.
"Good," Rook said, voice low and calm now. "You felt that one coming."
Luck nodded, his breathing shallow. Sweat dripped down his back. His arms ached. But he didn't lower his stance.
"Let's see how long you can keep it up."
***
"Argh..." Luck groaned from the floor. "It feels like my whole body has bruises on it."
Rook stood over him, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Yeah, well I wouldn't be suprised if it did."
Luck flopped onto his back, facing what he thought was the sky. "I thought training was supposed to make me stronger, not break me into pieces."
Luck let out a long, theatrical groan.
"You lasted longer today," Rook added after a pause, more casually now. "That last set of pivots? Clean. You even dodged one of my swings without flinching. That's a hell of a jump from where you started last week."
Luck blinked and turned his head, frowning. "It's already been a week?"
Rook tossed the canteen at him. "Yup."
"Time flies, I guess—wait, what are you doing?" Luck lifted his head, squinting as he heard Rook's footsteps crunching away.
"Heading back," Rook said over his shoulder. "You better hurry up unless you want to spend the night out here."
"What?! I didn't even get a break!" Luck sat up, scandalized. "The run is gonna kill me!"
Rook didn't even turn around. "Yeah? Well, you can either 'die' on the run or take your chances with whatever's going to come when I'm gone. Come on you big baby."
Luck froze.
"…You're joking."
No answer.
"…Right?"
Still nothing—just the fading sound of boots on dirt.
Luck scrambled to his feet with a groan, muttering under his breath. "I hate him."
But he started running anyway.
***
Huff. Huff. Huff.
Luck wheezed as he staggered to a stop at the base of the building, sweat dripping down his neck, his breath rasping like broken bellows.
His hands found the cold, rusted metal of the ladder by feel alone—worn smooth in the spots he gripped most often. He leaned against it for just a second, catching his breath.
"Climb!" Rook's voice called sharply from above. "We're not done yet!"
Luck grit his teeth. "You've got to be kidding…"
But he reached up anyway, fingers curling around the first rung. Each step up burned—shoulders aching, legs shaking—but he climbed.