The circle broke into motion. People headed for the duffel in an orderly rush, wooden swords changing hands with the easy familiarity of people who’d done this a lot.

  I shrugged out of my blazer, suddenly aware of every movement, and folded it carefully on top of the duffel. The air felt cooler against my shirt; the bandages on my wrists looked glaringly white.

  “Here,” a voice said behind me.

  I turned. Theo was holding out one of the wooden blades, hilt first. His grin was dialed down a little, more focused than flashy.

  “Figured I’d call dibs before Luis steals you for wrestling footwork,” he said. “You okay with me?”

  “Are you qualified?” I asked, taking the sword. It was heavier than it looked, solid and a little unbalanced in my grip.

  He snorted. “I’ve been doing this since before I could spell ‘parry.’ I promise not to chop anything off.”

  “Reassuring,” I said, but I nodded.

  We moved a few paces away from the others, just far enough not to whack anybody by accident. Around us, pairs were already squaring off—twins together, Maya with Jamal, Rebecca with Luis, Lillibet and Vinh in a small vortex of intensity.

  “Okay,” Theo said, sobering. “Basics first. Grip.”

  He stepped closer, not quite into my space, and adjusted my hands on the hilt—right above left, thumbs wrapped, wrists straight. His fingers were warm; the calluses along his palms scratched lightly against my skin.

  “You’re not mopping a floor,” he said. “Don’t choke it. Hold it like…like you mean it, but you’re not trying to strangle it.”

  “Clear as mud,” I muttered, but I loosened my death grip a fraction.

  “Feet shoulder?width apart,” he went on. “Dominant foot back a little. Knees soft. You’re not a statue; you’re a spring.”

  He stepped back, demonstrating—blade held low but ready, weight balanced, eyes on mine. For the first time, I saw the fighter he’d been in the alley without the adrenaline haze. This was his element.

  “Good,” he said when I mimicked him, or close enough. “We’ll fix the details later. For now, we’re going to work on guards and simple cuts. No fancy stuff, no lunges, no spinning. Just learning what your body does when there’s weight in your hands.”

  We started slow.

  He showed me the basic guard positions—blade high to protect the head, low to cover the legs, across to shield the ribs. My shoulders complained almost immediately. The sword felt both too heavy and too light, like my muscles hadn’t decided where to send the effort.

  “Keep your elbows in,” he said, tapping one gently with the flat of his blade. “You’re not doing interpretive dance.”

  “Tell that to my arms,” I said through my teeth.

  He chuckled, then lifted his own practice sword. “Okay. I’m going to tap your blade. You’re going to meet it, not swat at it. Just…receive.”

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  “Like a very pointy hug,” I said.

  “Exactly.” His smile flashed, then vanished as he focused.

  He brought his sword in at a measured pace. I moved to block. Wood kissed wood with a muted thock. He pulled back, came from another angle. High, low, left, right. Each time I dragged the blade into place, sometimes late, sometimes off?center.

  “Good,” he said softly when I actually met one cleanly. “Again.”

  Around us, other pairs had already moved on to more complex patterns—Luis and Rebecca trading quick crosses, the twins mirroring each other like a reflection. Lillibet and Vinh moved in a tight circle, their blades a blur.

  Sweat prickled along my neck. My wrists ached under the bandages. But with every careful tap of Theo’s blade, the wooden weight in my hands felt a tiny bit less alien.

  We’d fallen into a rhythm—tap, block, adjust grip, try not to let my shoulders catch fire—when motion at the edge of my vision snagged my attention.

  Artem.

  He’d been paired with Hana a few yards away. She was patient, talking him through a basic guard, moving at half speed so he could track her blade. He wasn’t good, but he was at least trying.

  Then, all at once, he wasn’t.

  He froze mid?stance, practice sword hanging slack in his hand. Whatever color he’d had in his face drained out, leaving him chalk?white. His eyes had gone so wide I could see the rims all the way around the irises.

  Hana’s wooden sword thwacked into the side of his head with a solid whap.

  He didn’t even flinch.

  “Artem?” she said, lowering her blade. “Hey—”

  Theo’s next tap never landed. Everyone was going still, like someone had hit a universal pause button. The murmur of practice died. Even the air felt like it held its breath.

  My skin crawled. Wraith? Some new flavor of nightmare?

  I turned to follow Artem’s stare, already bracing for teeth or claws.

  It wasn’t a Wraith.

  It wasn’t anything unHuman at all.

  It was an old woman.

  She had to be at least seventy. White hair, pulled into a bun so tight it might’ve been holding up the sky. Loose black leather pants, a long matching coat hanging open and flapping as she walked. Underneath, a black silk shirt that caught the light in little slicks. As she moved, the coat shifted just enough for me to catch glimpses of a long sheathed sword at her hip, the leather?wrapped hilt worn smooth by decades of use.

  Her back was straight. Her stride was purposeful, measured, perfectly balanced. No hesitation, no wobble, just a clean, relentless line from the gym doors toward our circle.

  She didn’t read as “old woman” so much as “force of nature that has chosen, for now, to take this shape.”

  Gasps rippled through the group.

  Lillibet reacted first. She turned fully toward the newcomer and bowed so deeply her forehead almost touched the grass. A half?beat later, the others followed—some with proper bows, some with heads ducked, eyes on the ground. Even Theo, who I had never seen defer to anything, bent at the waist.

  “My Lady.” Mr. Okafor’s bow was low and formal. “It is such an honor.”

  The woman’s gaze swept across the field, past Artem—who looked like he might actually faint—and landed on Okafor. Up close, her eyes were pale and very, very sharp.

  “You were supposed to teach the boy,” she said. Disdain dripped off every syllable. “Clearly, he is worse than ever.”

  Mr. Okafor didn’t flinch.

  “Ang, take the class,” he said, already stepping forward. His voice had gone smoother, more formal. “Lady, if we could speak—”

  He fell into stride beside the woman, angling her gently toward the gym. His words dropped to a low murmur—apologies, assurances, something about “progress” and “adjusting curriculum.” She didn’t slow down. She didn’t speed up either. She just let herself be escorted, coat flaring once as the doors swallowed them both.

  For a moment, the field was completely, utterly silent.

  Then it exploded in whispers.