She swung her sword from above her head and down until it was a hair from touching the ground in front of her. It was a simple vertical motion. Anyone who had held a sword had done it. It was the easiest since gravity did most of the work.
Such a simple motion was turned into art in Yanael's hands.
Her hands moved in a perfectly straight line without the slightest tremor or deviation. Her sword maintained a perfect angle, splitting and reconnecting the air it passed through, without leaving a single particle undisturbed in its wake.
But it was just once. It could have been a fluke, right?
No.
She repeated the swing. It was the exact same, down to the last ripple of her dress from her movement.
In just the few weeks that Zach was unconscious, Yanael had ripped away all of her experience and practice and replaced it with training that had already ingrained the movements of the sword into her bones.
