by Sussywand
The wooden training sword cracked against Hadrian's ribs hard enough to make him taste copper. He stumbled back, boots scraping against the golden stone of the training grounds, and barely got his own blade up in time to deflect the second strike. Lady Sif didn't wait for him to recover. She never did. Her practice sword whistled through the air where his head had been half a heartbeat ago, and Hadrian felt the wind of it brush his ear as he ducked. "Your guard is sloppy," Sif said, pressing forward with another combination. High strike, low strike, thrust toward his center mass. "You telegraph your movements."
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