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... but scarred from many feet and many drills.

Branulfr’s hands, small but stubborn, wrapped tight around the grip of the wooden sword.

His fiery red hair clung damp to his brow as he squared his feet on the packed earth, shield rim trembling against his arm.

He was seven winters now, all knees and elbows, but with the same cold fire in his eyes that burned in his father’s.

"Again," Vetrulfr said.

The boy raised the shield and swung.

The wooden blade ...

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