IRIS

I grip the wooden staff tighter, feeling it thrum with every movement I make. Grandfather watches me from across the training yard, arms folded, his eyes sharp as ever. “Again,” he says. “Faster. Strike with purpose, not hesitation.”

I pivot, swing, and jab. My muscles scream, but I push through. The staff clicks against his own with a precision that makes my teeth grit. “Better,” he nods. “Your footwork is clean, Iris. Again.”

We move in a rhythm now, attack and counter, a loop that makes sweat sting my eyes. I’m improving fast and I even notice it. Grandfather’s brow lifts slightly each time I anticipate his strike. “You’ve...