NORA

Nothing makes Nora happier than her training sessions with Teacher. And since Cel is on the roof training with Uncle Arthur, for two months she gets him all to herself.

He always starts her off with a stretching session, and even that can get strenuous rather quickly. Teacher is the most flexible person Nora has ever seen, and he seems determined to get her to the same level.

Nora’s decently flexible thanks to their daily sessions, but her balance still isn’t perfect. A standing split for more than half a minute still sets her wobbling. Teacher can stay in that stance for an hour. He did once, calmly instructing Nora through her exercises and testing her concentration ability with sly jokes. Nora had only been able to get through a single round of push-ups without laughing at him.

“So,” he says, after they’ve gone through their usual warm-up and she’s brimming with the urge to spar, “you were beaten by a ten-year-old yesterday.”

Nora swallows and falls into a fighting stance. Predictably, he comes at her with a series of quick, albeit punishing blows that will leave bruises on her skin. They’re superficial injuries; they barely hurt and they’ll heal quickly, but he gets the message across.

Nora needs to be better. To protect Cel, she’ll need to be the best.

He drags the spar on for so long that Nora’s body gets sluggish, and her blows become sloppy. He’s always improving her stamina, but today she can tell he’s opting to hammer in a different lesson.

“A day will come when you are tired, hurting, and hopeless,” he tells her, finally putting some distance between them. “And on that day, you must fight better than you ever have. On your worst day, you must be at your best.”

Panting so hard and fast that her chest hurts, Nora melts into a puddle of limbs on the floor.

He’s not even winded, and he shows no emotion whatsoever when he sinks into his own shadow, disappearing into the floor without a sound.

“Ah, Styx!” Nora hastily rolls aside, barely dodging his blow from behind. She lays on her back, meeting his unimpressed frown with a pout. “Teacher, I can’t move. You never push me this hard.”

“The time for formative lessons is over. From this day forth, your training will increase in difficulty.” He taps the high collar of his shirt, right over his throat. “Get up and use your shadow to fight me. We’re not nearly done.”

Nora’s on her feet in the space of a blink, and the cold black choker around her neck comes to life. It slides cooly over her right shoulder and forms into the shape of an arm. She flexes shadow-fingers and grins. He hasn’t let her use it in over a month.

The first time she’d used it this way, she’d cried. Teacher had summoned the shadow and pushed it deep into her body. It had pinched at something deep in her belly; it still does sometimes, as the shadow is tethered to her core. He’d taught her how to draw it to the surface, how to hide it as a choker around her neck, how to turn it into an arm...and how to use it as a weapon. It must always be touching her, but she can shape it as she pleases, and when molded into a blade, it cuts as finely as sharp steel. Its edges are never dull. The shadow only weakens if it is stretched too thin.

“The Busuruli coretype is unknown,” Teacher had explained the same day he’d given it to her, “but stormcores are a dominant type. Your eyes tell me you possess Malroix blood, so your coretype is most likely storm. As far as we can tell, you’re not a coricer, so I feel that giving you this is fair. You have a disability. You will learn to fight proficiently without a crutch, but I will not deny you one if I have it to give.”

Nora truly loves Teacher.

Even as he puts her through the wringer, she loves him fiercely.

“Fight me,” he says now, and so she does. With the added arm, she’s thrice as bold, and her fatigue is forgotten. She even manages to land a few strikes. Teacher fights like the wind, or perhaps more accurately, like a shadow. He slips in and out of range, silent and slippery. He uses his environment, but for the most part, he stays low, dipping and bowing and twisting out of the way with such ease and grace that it looks like he’s dancing.

Nora is more like a bull, charging in headfirst with heavy blows, but she’s learning to be less predictable. She’s good at faking someone out, at disguising a kick with a punch. The black arm draws the eye, and she knows how to use that to her advantage. It normally wouldn’t work on Teacher, but he wants her to learn, so he pretends to be fooled. Not always, but enough for her to grasp her own limits.

In the back of her mind, as they train, she wonders how Cel’s lessons are going.