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For Sana’a, fitness made all the difference. It lifted her from the fog of her endless physical pain and soothed her mind after its nightly wandering.
Unsettled by her dream, she rose from her cot and pulled on her togs.
She strode out of the dorms, past the weapons room, where she nabbed a curved dagger and straight into the open gym with individual cages.
Several fighters, including the burly Kiho, were already engrossed in their sets, and Sana’a nodded to a few.
He and one other, a woman, dipped their krests back while the rest ignored her as she nabbed a fighting ring.
Tucking her head in, Sana’a lost herself in a series of heart-racing sets and kapo sequences to soothe her rising jitters about the royal smug face in her dreams and the unknown match ahead.
She had no idea what to expect.
She wanted to pull out her SHärd blades to practice with the superior weapons.
It was her best preference to take the edge off, but it was too soon to play her best hand.
Instead, she worked the shotel in her hand.
Some mercs she’d fought with in the past had thought the weapon’s design unwieldy.
Others complained that the shotel’s hilt was too small in proportion to its sizeable rounded blade. Grousers claimed it made it difficult to use and challenging to aim.
To the Shotelai, these were all advantages. It all came down to learning the art of speed and aether movement to maximise its lethal power.
She ran through a series of flicks that turned the curved cutlass so fast that it’d disembowel a warrior’s core in seconds.
She lunged, practising her signature reach, designed to inflict severe damage to vital areas.
Another method she’d perfected was the whirlwind swing of the sword. In which the blade came down at a perpendicular angle on the adversary’s head.
Focusing with deep concentration, she moved with lightning-fast precision.
Her style was flawless, her motion honed from decades of discipline.
At one point, she closed her eyes and called on her father’s spirit.
The Shotelai King had been a peerless warrior bestowing a hardcore dagger-swinging storm in battle. All moves he’d executed had been fierce, so perfect it was like he’d ascended to a plane where he was one with his sword. Every slash he made had been precise; each cut deadly.
She channelled his energy, repeating instinctive reactions, forming an unimpaired tempest across the drill ring.
An hour later, she slowed down, coming out of her inner world to see a crowd around her fighting cage.
They scattered as she stared back at them, sweat dripping down her lithe frame.
With a shrug, Sana’a turned to a series of relaxing stretches and breathing exercises, which helped to release her joints from the immense pressure they dealt with daily.
She almost sobbed in relief as tension rolled from her body.
‘Strong workout,’ came a quiet comment as she pulled out of a head-down extension. ‘You’re in great nick.’
Sana’a glanced up to the edge of the perimeter where Kaniz stood, arms crossed on her chest.
‘You were watching,’ Sana’a said, stating the obvious, reaching for a towel to dry off her dripping hair.
‘Of course. Needed to see what shape you were in.’
Sana’a shrugged. ‘I’m not bad.’
