Thirteen-year-old Morielle held the long sword with two hands that were trembling slightly. It was one of the worst days of the barsi season, and the rain poured heavily. The pelting water was chilly that Morielle had to grit her teeth to avoid chattering. The mud already caked her boots and blue training robe. Her hair was plastered on her skull, and she felt sluggish because of the soaking robe. The long sleeves rolled down after her movements, even though she rolled them up earlier before she and Tallahir started the training match with the real sword. It had been like this since she told him she wanted to join the Yet’hoda.
The next day was Yet’hoda’s recruitment day. She wanted badly to enter it after three years of daily training. She would make sure her father wouldn’t be disappoin
