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The next day’s training began with more standing, or as Dino called it, “The Ballet of Balance.”

I audibly groaned at the monotony ahead.

Dino arched an eyebrow at the sound. “Does one wish to learn combat stances?”

“Yeah, real fighting and learning how to use different weapons. If my only focus is shifting weight back and forth, opponents will tear me apart.”

“Perhaps a quick bout will demonstrate the folly of this approach.”

“Yes, please. I know I’ll probably lose, but I’m game if you can show me what you’re talking about.”

We faced each other with practice short swords. I started by standing the way Dino had taught me yesterday but reverted to a more familiar attack stance I’d learned in Belden.

Dino barely moved, but whenever he did, he scored a hit. He wasn’t even fast. My defensive stance fared no better. Was I out of practice? Hawkhurst’s rustic encounters rarely pitted us against armed opponents. Wilderness monsters rarely held weapons. But I didn’t think I’d lost all my skills. By the end of the session, I laughed at my ineptitude.

Dino recited his lecture as I regained my composure. “Stances are not representative of proper fighting techniques. Arm gestures without underpinning legwork will render you unfortified.”

I grimaced to show I didn’t understand.

Dino tossed his sword to the ground to signify the end of our bout. “Even the derivative post-classical schools begin with footwork. Meditations on stances and strikes come later. First, one must position oneself to receive an attack. One must be in a constant state of positioning. Mastering the joy of fluid movement opens oneself to a spectrum of proficiencies—the Jarvan Defense, the Halan and Faux-Halan Endings, the New West Routines, Grayton Counters, and, of course, Maximillion’s Variants. From openings to conclusions, everything depends on proper footwork.”

In Belden, we’d gone straight into memorizing moves. I put my hands on my hips. “So, everything I learned about stances was a waste of time?”

Dino tilted his head from side to side. “It is yes, and it is no. You must unlearn them and focus on your footwork to learn proper positioning. When one positions one’s feet properly, one may apply stances. Then perhaps later, you’ll learn openings and sequences.”

“I still don’t see how I can focus on combat and footwork at the same time.”

“Your footwork will develop into autonomic functions.”

I squinted to show him I didn’t follow.

Dino signed. “Does one normally think about breathing?”

I shook my head.

“And yet, one has control of breathing. One must think to stand correctly. Not-thinking will happen after repetition.”

I spoke without enthusiasm. “And that means practice.”

Dino clapped his hands. “And that means no testy questions!”

Nodding, I obeyed his instruction. I wouldn’t have complained if Dino had explained this beforehand.

I spent the next few weeks shifting my weight and memorizing positions against slashing and bludgeoning weapons whose swinging attacks came from four quadrants—left, right, upper, and lower. The weapon’s position in this imaginary quadrant determined my footwork to receive or dodge blows. Piercing weapons didn’t deliver as much damage, but the footwork wasn’t as varied, making it less predictable.

My unique power, Applied Knowledge, tripled my development rate. Soon, I unlearned the bad habits of mimicking stances and genuinely used footwork as Dino taught us. Instead of holding me back, Dino graduated me along with Blane, Bernard, and Fabulosa, despite their advanced training. We’d entered a second phase, where we learned footwork using different weapons.

Anyone watching us practicing would laugh. Our attacks looked artificial and stilted. It didn’t matter how many hits we scored, dodged, or blocked. Dino only cared about footwork.

One night, Fabulosa seemed preoccupied when she entered the town hall for dinner. Lost in thought, she didn’t acknowledge Beaker when she entered, making him more anxious than usual. He shook with anticipation by the time she plopped down in her chair.

“I can see what Charitybelle meant when she said training with you helped her game.”

She ruffled Beaker’s chest feathers in a greeting as she watched my reaction. We teased each other a lot, so genuine praise became quite an admission.

“Thanks. It’s all from the library, the power I picked up from studying and research.”

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Fabulosa seemed uncharacteristically serious. “I see now how it paid off. We all thought you were crazy. You worked in the library while we goofed off. Anyway, your footwork is pretty smooth. I’m still stumbling with piercing weapons.”

“Let me know if you need help with something. I used to practice with other students in Belden.”

“I bet you were the teacher’s pet back home.”

I snorted. “You’d lose that bet.”

“You could become Dino’s Familiar, like Beaker.”

At the mention of his name, Beaker tilted his head at me in a questioning look, and we both cracked up at his confusion.

Fabulosa bit into her meal. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ll get there. I’m not half as bad as when you started. You tripped over yourself something awful. Those stances you picked up in Belden didn’t do you any favors, at least not with Dino’s techniques.”

“I know. It feels like I’m finally getting it—like I’m always ready to strike back now. I hate to say it, but I’m ready to apply my stances again. My footwork feels automatic. It’s like I’m not even thinking about it.”

Fabulosa shook her head. “I wish I was there. You’re getting good, partner—there’s no doubting that. And I feel like I’m improving faster, too. Even Blane and Barnard are picking it up.”

I became mindful of my progress when I regularly bested the dwarves or Fabulosa in practice bouts. I felt fluid, whereas their footwork looked slower and more mechanical. Yet Dino pitted us against one another but directed his instructions primarily toward my opponents during practice. I didn’t mind letting him use me as an instructional aid to bring the others along. The less he addressed my shortcomings, the more confident I felt about my skills.

I began forgetting about my footwork—but in a good way. My brain filtered it out like static.

It reminded me of my first trip to New York City. Atlantic City teens usually bragged about their first Amtrak pilgrimage to “the city.” Even though the route went through Philadelphia, everyone knew “the city” meant New York.

Standing on a busy Manhattan corner for the first time overloaded my senses. It took time before my brain acclimated to the roar of buses, pedestrians, store windows, signs, walk signals, and bikes whizzing by. School hallway traffic hadn’t prepared me for the madness of Grand Central Station, where commuters moved in near-running gaits at 360-degree vectors. People turned their heads in their intended direction. Only by following their gaze could I avoid collisions. The streets exposed me to unfamiliar lane markings for bikes, busses, and general traffic, and stopping to distinguish between the one and two-way traffic caused natives to collide with me—New Yorkers rarely stopped at corners—especially with lit walk signs.

But it only took my brain a few minutes to tune out the noise. Once it clicked, I stopped becoming an obstacle and focused on what other big city people did—finding the quickest route between A and B.

This peripheral awareness mirrored how I watched opponents during combat. Instead of considering every motion, I developed a hierarchy of attention. I followed their eyes for strikes while being conscious of their telegraphed footwork. I read their attacks before they made them. While I remained prone to surprise and tricks, my mind filtered out unnecessary details and concentrated on tactics.

I improved my skills since fighting Winterbyte on the ledge. This new “combat vision” exposed me to a new plateau. With her canine nose, I stood little chance of surprising her. But if we could evade her traps and tricks, my new melee skills might be enough to take her down by myself—I could reserve my mana and spells for only emergencies. Having someone as capable as Fabulosa by my side amounted to overkill.

What encouraged me about our odd position in the contest revolved around the rarity of running a private battle college. Comparable institutions undoubtedly operated in large cities, but attending them required insane exposure to enemy contestants. Fabulosa and I enjoyed Hawkhurst as if we owned the place, which wasn’t far from the truth.

Training lasted until our concentrations waned in the late afternoon. I often met with Greenie or Ally afterward over some such issue with the town.

The day’s final responsibility involved holding back Beaker when Fabulosa entered the town hall for dinner, usually before the rowdy work crews arrived. My Familiar, no longer a fluff ball, grew larger weekly, becoming harder to control. His entire beagle-sized body trembled whenever Fabulosa entered the town hall, and I’d mentally reassure him every day. “Don’t worry. She’ll come over here.” Whenever Fabulosa stopped to talk to someone, a battle of wills ensued. Beaker tensed up so much I worried he’d hurt himself trying to wriggle from my grasp.

One night, Fabulosa arrived later than usual. And her entry into the town hall caught me unawares.

Beaker bounded from one tabletop to the next—his tiny wings flapping caused a bigger mess. His molting white down filled the air and drifted into people’s food. Not only had the griffon knocked the food out of her arms, he tipped over cups and bowls of other diners en route.

“Beaker, no! Get back here!” I mentally shouted at him, but his sheer enthusiasm blocked out my telepathic messages.

“Fabulosa is here! Fabulosa is here!”

Fabulosa carried him to my table while I helped clean up the mess. When I returned with clean bowls for both of us, I punished him by putting him on the floor. He grew too big to be put on the table anyway.

Everyone appreciated how cute Beaker looked except Rocky, who stood rigid at the sight of sullied food. If I hadn’t been the governor, he probably would have shouted a string of colorful insults, so I tried to assuage him with apologies. “I’m sorry, Rock. I’ll keep a better hold of him next time.”

I discovered many problems with raising a griffon, the chief of which involved my inability to put Beaker on a leash. His delicate and flexible neck prevented any such thing. Nessa and Tara fashioned a harness made from soft fabric, but wrapping anything around him threw him into a panic. He flapped around so much I removed it over the fear that he’d injure himself.

“Our Chickers is growing!” Fabulosa ruffled Beaker’s white chest feathers, admiring what replaced his speckled down. Whenever he liked someone, he opened his mouth toward them—possibly the griffon equivalent of a smile.

Beaker sat beside her on the chair as we ate. Griffons sitting on chairs became our compromise between the table and the floor.

“I wish Beaker would get used to seeing you every day. He doesn’t behave like that with me or anyone else.”

She cooed at the griffon. “My long hair probably reminds him of his momma.”

Beaker eyeballed the silver brooches on Fabulosa’s outfit. Her frilly cuffs and accessories fascinated him. Perhaps the accouterments factored into the griffon’s affection. He gently tugged at the ruffles and loved anything shiny. Utensils, coins, and buttons counted among my pet’s favorite things. He pecked at anything that gleamed, giving me a reason to watch him closely during dinner.

I gave my pet the silver and gold cylinders we pulled from the ward worm’s lair, making for the continent’s most expensive pet toys. The reflections drove him crazy, entertaining him for up to ten minutes, even if they weighed too much for him to poke around.

The more my griffon remained summoned, the faster he grew, so I rarely dismissed him. During the day, Beaker got used to “hunting” around the town. This involved little more than begging from Mrs. Berling as she assisted Rocky with cooking. She happily fed him scraps, so he stayed with her while I trained. Although it tested Rocky’s patience, I became thankful for her babysitting services.