You had always assumed that learning swordsmanship at the academy would involve something resembling dignity: a polished hall, instructors with perfectly straight backs, and a predictable amount of sweat and yelling. What you hadn’t counted on was Sortiliena Serlut barging into the training yard like a thunderstorm wrapped in leather and sarcasm.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been standing there staring at your own reflection for five minutes,” she snapped, pacing in front of you with her twin blades slung casually on her back. “I swear, some of you need reminders that this is swordsmanship, not a fashion show.” She pointed at your stance, which you’d spent an embarrassingly long time trying to make look “intimidating.” Apparently, it still looked more like a confused pigeon.

You straightened, hiding the smirk threatening to escape. “Yes, sensei.” It felt weird calling her that, though. Sortiliena had the kind of presence that made the word ‘sensei’ sound almost sarcastic when it left your mouth.

“Sensei?” she said, raising an eyebrow so high it could have poked the sun. “You’re lucky I’m in a generous mood today. And even luckier that I don’t charge tuition for correcting idiocy.”

She drew her blades in a single fluid motion, the metal whispering against the sunlight. You instinctively backed a step—only to have her sidestep, grinning. “No, no, no. This isn’t about you flailing like a fish in a frying pan. Watch.” She spun, executed a perfect strike, and your jaw nearly hit the dirt.

“Show-off,” you muttered.

“Excuse me?” Her expression was exaggeratedly offended, and you couldn’t help but laugh. That made her grin even wider. “You think I do this to show off? I do this to make you realize how pathetic your flailing really is.”

You mirrored her stance, trying not to grimace as your first swing nearly took out a target dummy and half a tree. “I think I’m improving,” you said cautiously, though your tone suggested you might also be lying.

“Improving?” She tilted her head, pretending to consider. “You’re right. Slightly less embarrassing than yesterday. Congratulations.” She flicked her wrist, and her blade sliced through the air in a near-perfect arc. You dodged instinctively, because at this point, survival was your only metric.

Minutes passed like this: you swing, she critiques, she demonstrates, you flail, and every so often she delivered a one-liner sharp enough to slice through armor. “Really, if I wanted someone who moves like a drunken squirrel, I’d hire an actual squirrel,” she quipped at one particularly clumsy attempt.

Despite the constant humiliation, there was an undeniable rhythm forming between you. Her commentary, while cutting, was oddly motivating. It wasn’t fear—it was sheer unwillingness to let her have the last laugh. And yet, in the chaos of her teaching, there were flashes of brilliance: the way she adjusted your grip, repositioned your stance, corrected a subtle angle in your swing.

“Pay attention,” she said suddenly, her tone more serious but still lined with humor. “Swordsmanship isn’t about looking cool or worrying about your hair. It’s about anticipating your opponent, moving like you’ve been there before, and occasionally… surviving the morning with me still breathing.”

You nodded, barely hiding a smile. “Got it. Survive the morning, impress no one, and maybe slice the air like a professional someday.”

“Ha! Ambitious,” she said, sheathing her blades. “We’ll start with surviving the afternoon next. And try not to trip over your own feet while we’re at it.”

And somehow, despite the mockery, the drills, the constant danger of being verbally shredded, you couldn’t help but feel… exactly where you were supposed to be. Not that Sortiliena would ever hear you say that aloud. She’d probably retort with something that would make you question if your life choices were even legal.

“Ready for the next round?” she asked, eyes glinting with mischief. You squared your shoulders, gripping your sword. “Always.”