They began slowly at first—tentative, uncertain.
The floor had become their stage, their battleground, and somehow their training hall all in one.
The desks pushed aside stood like silent onlookers.
With each synchronized breath, the students moved—not with brute precision this time, not with rehearsed stiffness or the half-learned motions they'd received from Granfire's stiff textbook drills—but with something new. Something fluid. Something almost… artistic.
It was the Knight movement technique, yes. But layered, textured, evolving. They were dancing.
Not dancing in the joyful, whimsical sense. No, this was sharper. Like steel slicing through silk.
There was grace to their arcs, deadliness in their spins.
Their bodies traced violent poetry across the polished floor, a choreography born not from music but from purpose.
One student stepped forward, sweeping their leg into a pivoted stance, the heel carving a crescent on the floor as their arm extended in a feint.
