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Her body was at one with her blade, a living enhancement of her mind.
Killen’s gaze followed every movement she made. She demonstrated mastery and control that was both captivating and awe-inspiring.
Sana’a’s fighting style, the Shotelai way, was based on channelling one’s inner ferocity and harnessing it into powerful strikes.
The way she twisted her wrists, how her silhouette flowed from one stance to another. It was like watching a master artisan at work.
She was so mesmerising that he unconsciously shifted his arms and feet, his body taut with urgency.
Following her moves and desiring her skill to wield these weapons with the same level of proficiency.
Every last swing and parry was a dance crafted with a wild abandon underscored by utter precision.
Each gesture was calculated yet still possessed a wildness and primal energy.
Her breath slowed as she came to a stop and turned to face the three suitably impressed men. ‘You can shut your gaping maws now,’ she teased. ‘First things first. Wielding a blade goes beyond fighting. Let the blades become an extension of yourself. Next, it’s about balance. Trust your instincts and let your body move with the flow of the fight. It’s also about taking breaths to control oneself. Combined, they evolve into an instinct that drives your success in battle’.
As she spoke, she paced the drill area. Her stance charged with barely restrained energy. With a potent and untamed strength, like a coiled snake waiting to strike.
‘The Shotelai way of fighting is about the force of these three habits. Through extensive drills and practice, we study movement, pace our breath, and train our posture—every day. Kaxim, Kione, with me.’
The pair obeyed, coming to the training sand. She had them demonstrate her basic skills for Killen in moments, giving them short, quick commands.
The Kíríga crossed his hands over his chest, fascinated, fixated on how their movements synced in tandem: If one turned, the other got closer, as if an invisible coordinating force joined them.
‘Your turn.’
Sana’a handed Killen a shortsword forged of wood with blunt edges so as not to wound.
He shed his boots and walked onto the ring.
Thinking on her words, he gripped the hilt of his muted blade, playing with a few parries.
At first, it was heavy to hold, but he soon got used to its weight.
Sana’a moved close as she taught him to grip it and place his feet.
They started with basic combat drills, circling each other with calculated precision.
Kione and Kaxim joined in, allowing Killen to practice his attacks and lunges.
Sana’a stepped in where needed to guide his movements. Her hands glided in fluid motion as she demonstrated specific techniques, her body exuding confidence and control.
‘There’s no way I can coordinate so many steps,’ he lamented at one point.
‘Give it time. Rather than blading with care, a lunge followed by a sudden stop makes your weapon fights dramatic and animated,’ Sana’a remarked. ‘Get wild with it.’
His eyes widened, and then, with a burst of energy, he lost all inhibition and added more fierceness to his attacks.
With a nod, Sana’a upped the intensity.
She stepped into the ring and, with a part smile, challenged him to a sparring session.
He surged forward, and she met him with a grin.
‘Fokk, you’re slippery,’ he murmured as she leapt out of his way.
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she sassed back.
