Henry couldn’t see for the sweat that was pouring down his face. The leather and wire grip of his sword and dagger were an alien weight in his hands, chafing at his fingers. He was standing in a line with the other apprentices, repeating a series of strikes and parries in an endless cycle, while an older boy barked orders and Charnock the Cornish swordmaster watched. The sweat had soaked through the padded arming jacket Henry wore, adding another dark stain to the already mottled yellow-brown lining of the foul-smelling padded coat. He no longer knew how long he had been repeating these maneuvers, staring at his own distorted face in the polished copper of the wall-mirror. It hypnotized him; it is not just a reflection of his form, but of his past; the mirror reflects a time back before the orphanage, back when he had a home and a family. He looked for them in the edges of the reflection, where they may once have been, but saw only swinging blades.

“High!” The cracking voice of Henry’s tormentor rang out, and Henry swung for the head of his imaginary opponent. His shoulder and arm protested, and he over-extended, nearly striking the boy to his right. The whole line shuddered to a halt, and Henry felt a presence behind him, the shadow of the swordmaster falling across his shoulder. “Watch your feet, boy. Your balance is wrong, and it is throwing off your swing.”

He moved closer, and Henry froze, expecting the lash. No blow landed. Instead the swordmaster’s calloused hands snaked out, nudging Henry’s shoulders and feet gently into place before ghosting back out of reach. “Try again.”

“High!” shouts the older boy, and Henry swung, feeling more in control. The orders kept coming, and as Henry shifted his weight and footing more carefully, his movements became more fluid.

Just as Henry felt that he’d got his momentum back, the swordmaster clapped his hands together. “Time for a break. Remember to drink. We start again in a turn of the glass!” He then put a small hourglass down in the centre of the floor and left the room.

Henry stopped, resting the point of his practice sword on the sprung wooden floor, and groaned. His shoulders felt like bars of lead, and the muscles in his forearms were hard as rocks. He cursed under his breath, and lifted the sword, sliding it into the leather scabbard on his sword-belt. Turning, he headed over to the side of the room, where the others were clustered around a barrel of stout ale.

Thomas sneered at him as he approached, but turned away, too tired to make trouble. Henry poured himself a mug of the thick metallic brew, and took a long pull. He then bit his tongue, and drew on his power to help his muscles to heal. All around him, the other students did the same. He quickly felt the ache receding from his arms and shoulders, but the power cost him, leaving him feeling cold and sleepy.

Beside him, one of the girls sank to the floor, folding her legs under her until she was sitting cross-legged. She lay her sword across her lap, and nursed her mug with shaking hands. She was small, almost comically so next to the large practice sword she has been swinging all morning. Henry couldn’t help but feel impressed that she’d kept up, then realises with a start that she was the one who dropped him on his first night in the dorm.

She noticed him watching her, and looked up. “You’re Henry, right? The new boy.” Her voice was quiet, and very calm. She brushed a loose strand of sweat-slick hair out of her face. “You’re doing well. I was told you were just a street urchin, but you look like you’ve swung a sword before.”

“Thanks. I think. What’s your name?”

“Sybille.” She flashes a tired grin. “Before you came, I was the new kid.”

Henry nodded, considered holding a grudge, then decided against it. “Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Sybille.”

Henry sat next to her, and they shared a companionable silence as the rest of the class grumbled and bickered. Henry kneaded the muscles in his forearms, and Sybille just stared into the middle distance as if in a trance. Her breathing was slow and regular, shoulders slack.

The sands ran down, and as the last grains fell the sword master returned. “Alright you layabouts, up on your feet.” A collective groan rose from the class as the instructor strode back into the middle of the room. “We’ll break it up a bit, never fear. It’s time for sparring practice.”

The class forms a loose ring around the edges of the room. Henry followed their example, standing at the edge of the room with his back to the mirror. The swordmaster prowled around inside the circle. He touched Thomas on the shoulder, and then Robert. “The rest of you should burn a little blood, to keep up with them. And watch carefully! You might learn something. Boys, remember the rules: No killing shots, no broken bones!”

Thomas and Robert strutted into the ring. Thomas swung his sword around a bit, and hopped on his toes. His expression was savage, eyes screwed into pinpricks of rage. Robert on the other hand just rolled his shoulders, stretched a little and then took a ready stance. He looked perfectly calm.

There had been tension between the two of them ever since Robert beat Thomas unconscious in the dorm room, and they had been avoiding each other off and on for weeks. Now that tension was thick enough that Henry felt like he could barely breathe. Both of the boys had been in training for months longer than he or Maggie, and they were noble children with years of fencing practice before that. They moved through the drills with ease. Now they circled one another, seeking an opening, their footwork perfect as they stepped across the polished wooden floor.

Henry bit his tongue, feeling the rush of power as the world slowed around him. Even then, he nearly missed it. Thomas lunged forward. Robert took a single neat step, turned his hip and let the sword go by. The economy of his movement was incredible given his size, leaving a bare quarter-inch of space between him and the blade, and then, calm as you like, he rammed his elbow into the young lord’s face.

There is hardly any blood of course, just a sickening crunch as the boy’s nose was spread sideways across his face. Robert stepped on Thomas’ right foot, and used the weight of his body to push the smaller boy off his feet. This time, Thomas released a cry of agony as his trapped ankle twisted and popped.

Robert stepped away, giving Thomas some space. There was a pause, then a collective intake of breath. Thomas lay his sword to his side and took deep, purposeful breaths. He wrapped one hand around the ball of his foot and another around the heel, breathed heavily once more, and jerked the ankle straight. It crackled and he hissed and sucked air through clenched teeth until it appeared to have set and he lifted himself to his feet, sword in hand. He tested his ankle out for a few ginger strides, and then reset, his eyes cold. He left his nose bent.

They sped up again, and again. Henry burns more blood to keep up with their movements, but found himself out of his depth. Like with most things, the two older boys were much more advanced at this than he. They seemed to be moving in a dance, reacting at times even before the other had even begun to move. It was remarkable, and intimate. Henry looked away for a moment, feeling absurdly embarrassed, and when his eyes flicked back, it is over.

It was Thomas who was still standing. Charnock had him by the arm, pulling him back. Robert was on the floor, his sword arm limp and his shirt laid open. He looked as if he had been run over by a cart, his body already swelling up from the savage beating. He groaned, rolled onto his side and then curled up into a ball. Sybille rushed forward with a mug of stout, taking his head into her lap and letting him drink.

In the corner, Thomas kicked off again, but the swordmaster slammed him against the wall. Thomas, and many of the other more practiced witches, were significantly stronger than Henry was, but Charnock handled the older boy as if he were a small child. He whispered something in Thomas’ ear. The boy subsided a bit, but spit in their direction. Henry looked more closely. Thomas was crying. What Henry had taken for anger was actually grief.

The older boy shook himself loose from the Cornishman’s grip and stormed out of the room. Robert was helped to the infirmary by Sybille. They went back to drilling for a bit, but their movements were hesitant and half hearted. Eventually, Charnock just dismissed the class. Thomas was absent for the rest of the day.

Robert and Sybille reappeared after a couple of hours, at a lesson where the students had to navigate a fully furnished room in complete darkness, when it had been crisscrossed with tripwires attached to bells. Nobody speaks to them, and they keep to themselves. Robert used his shoulder as if it were fine, but Henry could somehow tell that it was still mending. He was surprised by this; he’d never had this ability before. He could feel the heat of the extra blood pooling in the shoulder, and sense the inflammation. The quiet ring of a bell brought him back to the lesson at hand, though he made a note to explore that later.

The instructor was a smallish, pale man with an unremarkable face, who has introduced himself as Master Sledd. Whenever Henry looked away from him, he found himself unable to call to mind a single feature of the man’s face, and it was a quality he found disturbing. The Master was an instructor in what he called the subtle arts, or spycraft, and the goal of the exercise was to find an object that Master Sledd had hidden in the room, but had not described to them. So far, nobody had managed it. Henry had tripped on a chair, gotten tangled in the threads and gone down in a heap of jangling bells not five minutes ago. A couple of the other apprentices laughed. Henry decided that the whole test is some kind of elaborate joke, and leaned against the wall, grumbling to himself.

It didn’t help that the man’s voice was as difficult to recall as his face was. Whenever he spoke, his quiet monotone seemed to wash over the class without soaking in at all. Henry had to force himself to listen intently to even grasp the words, let alone understand them. When the instructor quietly announced that the lesson was over, Henry stayed still a moment before realizing what the man had said and gladly sloped off back towards the dormitories.

He arrived hearing shouting. Thomas’ voice, cracking and raw.

“You damn well deserve it, you bastard. Don’t you shrug at me!”

Henry stopped at the door, uncertain. He hovered with his hand over the latch.

“You dare!” Thomas screamed, and there was a huge crash and a low moan of pain. Henry flung the door open and stepped into the room. Thomas was looming over Robert, who had been thrown into the side of one of the bunkbeds, shattering two of the supports so that it sagged and threatened to collapse on him.

Henry’s power surged, and he bellowed “What the hell are you doing?!” He crossed the room and put himself between Thomas and Robert.

Thomas’ eyes went wide, and Henry could see clearly that the other boy had been crying before his face crumpled into a snarl of pure hatred. “Get out of my way, rat.”

“Damned if I will. You’ll kill him.”

Thomas closed in an eyeblink, stopping within a few inches of Henry’s face, and Henry could smell the blood on his breath. “I said get out of my way. Defy me again and I will make you regret it.”

Henry stood his ground. He used more blood, until his body was singing and he could see every pore on the other boy’s face. “I will not.” Despite barely being able to comprehend the older boy’s speed earlier, Henry’s blood rush made him feel invincible. No one could stand in front of him. Thomas moved back a little, and Henry felt a moment of pride that he had made the older boy back down.

But Thomas is only creating space in which to strike. The older boy lashed out. It was a lazy right hand, without any set-up or intent to disguise it. Henry tried to slip out of the way, but even at half speed Thomas was far too fast for him. The punch landed clean on Henry’s jaw. Henry was at least moving, and managed to roll with it, lessening the force of impact. Ears ringing, he reset and raised his fists, ready to defend himself, when Robert’s hand closed around his right ankle. The pressure was incredible, and Henry could feel his bones complain. “Leave.” His voice is flat, resigned. He forced Henry to one side, Henry having to hop on his left foot to avoid being dragged to the ground.

Henry pulled away, retreating to the other side of the room. He looked back, confused. His ankle felt like it’d been trapped in a vise, and he tried to keep his weight off of it as he limped out of the room. As soon as the door shut behind him, the shouting resumed.