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Chapter 18: Masks and Knives
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... o instructors barking orders, no students laughing to prove they belonged. Just stone, dirt, racks of battered blades, and the whistle of wind that always seemed to find its way through the broken arch at the far end.
The dirt circle in the center was carved with old scars—cuts, scuffs, and heel marks left behind by years of sparring. They had seen triumph, humiliation, and blood spilled in accidents no one admitted to in reports. Today, they would see only me.
I shrugged off the ...
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