A sliver of surprise flashed through Kestrel’s face when he parried one of her strikes and answered with a short, almost vicious counter that drove her sword off-line.

He advanced another half step, turned his wrist, and forced her to shift her footing. That alone told him how much he had improved, because Kestrel had not expected him to move her at all.

Her dragon spectre snapped toward his side, and he rolled under it with a movement that would have been impossible an hour earlier, then came up swinging. She blocked, but he had already seen the angle and adjusted, forcing her to retreat one measured step across the summit stone.

Lancet breathed hard, the thrill of it all surging up through the ache in his limbs.

She was still clearly the better swordsman.

But he was not helpless anymore.

He could feel it in the rhythm of the exchange. Kestrel was using one Dragonblade and still dominating the flow, but he was standing inside the same fight instead of being pushed helplessly around it.

The duel ended when Kestrel caught him with a fake slash, he knew it was fake, so he prepared for the next slash. But the under slash also was a feint, she spun the dragonsword and stopped it beside Lancet’s neck — where the original slash was going.

Lancet looked down with the corner of his eye. He saw the dragon spectre with its jaws open around his neck, ready to clamp down if Kestrel slashed any deeper.

He lowered his sword.

Kestrel finally stepped back and let the pressure of her blade fall away.

Lancet remained where he was, sword low and chest heaving. The smoke was gone from his clothes now and his hair slowly settled back down after it had gotten all spiky from the lightning.

The mountain wind moved between them while he stood panting, one hand braced lightly against his own knee as he tried to catch his breath and understand what had just happened to his body.

Kestrel made a small hand motion, elegant and exact, and returned her Dragonblade behind her back in one smooth movement.

Then she looked at him.

Lancet stared down at his own hands for a second, turning them slightly as though to confirm they were still his.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

He looked up at her, then back down at his hands again as the answer gathered itself inside him.

"My Grace feels alive," he said slowly. "More alive than it ever has." He flexed his fingers, then his forearm, and felt the strange, almost electric strength in his muscles.

"I can feel it spreading through everything. My channels in my arms, my legs, my... my whole body." He looked up at her, excitement slowly pushing through the exhaustion. "And my muscles feel different. Stronger, but lighter somehow. I can sense things faster. My responses are sharper. That’s how I saw your attack and blocked it. That’s how I kept up with you."

Kestrel scoffed once, almost dismissively. "You were not keeping up with me."

Lancet gave her a look. "Yeah, I know. You didn’t go all out."

"Not even half," she said.

He stared at her, then let out a breath that sounded like a laugh. "Right. Not even half."

Then her expression shifted, just slightly to a warmer one. "But you performed well."

Lancet felt good about that.

Then, she went on as though she had been waiting for him to understand before saying the rest aloud.

"The lightning ritual forces the body to endure Heaven’s touch," she said. "It’s called Heavenly Tempering."

Lancet stopped looking at his hands and listened attentively.

"It tempers the channels so Grace flows faster and with less waste. It makes the body more responsive to the sword because it has already survived a force far greater than itself. It sharpens reflexes, because the body learns to move before fear can interfere." Her eyes narrowed a fraction. "And it burns away the weakness that remains."

Lancet felt each line land in him differently, and with every sentence the change in his body became easier to notice. The tingling in his limbs. The deeper hum in his chest. The way his shoulders no longer felt quite as heavy. The way his breathing had become steadier even while he was still tired. Everything she said was true. He could feel it.

He let out a breath, then looked at her with genuine gratitude. "Everything you said is true. Who knew raw lightning was the way?"

He rubbed the back of his neck, a little sheepishly now that the adrenaline had begun to settle. "I’m sorry I snapped at you."

Kestrel looked at him for a second, then to his surprise, she smiled. Not a wide smile. Not a soft one either. This kind looked like it had no habit of appearing unless something had genuinely pleased her.

"Do not be," she said. "I was harsher with my master when he did the same to me."

Lancet paused and remembered Ugbard.

Of course.

He looked at Kestrel and saw, in a flash, the old training slope, the endless refusals, the storm, the bow, the moment she had finally learned to trust discipline over pride.

The story he had created for her was what made her character. And that character was why she was such the best teacher for him.

It had only been a day and he’d learnt this much. Lancet was excited for the future.

After a moment, Kestrel turned her face toward the mountain path again and said, with her usual no-nonsense certainty, "Now it is time to begin the techniques you read from the scroll."

Lancet’s eyes brightened immediately. "Really?"

"Yes."

"You mean the actual great swordsman techniques?"

"Yes."

His excitement rose so fast he nearly forgot how tired he was. "I can start learning them now?"

Kestrel gave him a very flat look. "Your body has been tempered. That gives you a baseline of heavenly tempering. It is enough for you to attempt them."

Lancet’s grin started to spread, but then he caught one word in what she had said and blinked. "Baseline?"

"Of course."

Kestrel’s expression remained perfectly composed, and then she delivered the next blow in a very casual tone.

"You did not think you would only be struck once, did you?"

Lancet stared.

She folded her arms and looked up toward the dark clouds gathering overhead. "You said we have three more days."

His heart sank a little before she finished.

"That means," Kestrel said, her voice calm and merciless, "you have three showers of lightning left."