The Bladesworn Legacy
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Catrin li Ternadon was beginning to hate swords.
Too long, too narrow, with too unwieldy a blade—it felt like her long-fingered elf hands ought to be slicing a beef cow instead of learning some long-traditioned murder art. Especially with the sword Master-at-Arms Severn Treng had given her. Dull, heavy, and awkward, it had been the bane of her all month, and her shoulders, wrists, and back all burned and screamed at her in protest.
He, of course, made it look easy. Elegant. Graceful. A retired Sarasvatani army captain who had cut his career path in the bloody d’Enar revolution and subsequent border chaos, his light eyes, deep skin tone, and smooth, controlled motions stood out against the scenery—like a slash of old-world violence displaced into the peaceful, bucolic backdrop of Pemberlin Castle’s green-edged estate. The effect compounded double for her. At first, she’d thought him elf-blooded. Not full, like her, but at least part. Maybe from one of the northern Mora lines, as opposed to her own Sinya. He had the right build and color for it—lean and strong, his golden-brown eyes and dark skin wouldn’t look out of place among any of her people’s forest dwellers.