With only a few days left until the grand ceremony that would bind her fate to Fialova's, Argider resolved to turn her attention to other pressing matters. The hours were precious, the demands of life unyielding, and she intended to make every moment count before the vows were spoken.
By the time morning arrived, she was back at her training in the courtyard. The sword was barely steady in her left hand. It was a disaster. It would occassionaly slip, wobble, and felt like it had been replaced with a small anvil for no reason other than spite.
"Why is this so hard?" she grumbled, glaring at the treacherous blade in her left hand. It didn't answer, of course, but it looked smug, as inanimate objects often do when they're not performing as expected.
"I think I can tell you more things," said a voice, smooth and resonant.
