Their grey-haired training master, Archimedes, had his eyes fixed on the girls, for which Andrew was grateful. But if he let his twin outshine him, he’d never hear the end of it—not from her, but from Michael and Archimedes. He picked up his sword and resumed his stance in front of Michael. His breath was still coming too fast. The broadsword was a constant, tiresome weight and felt awkward in his grip. Michael, on the other hand, breathed easy, and tossed his sword from hand to hand. Andrew had a sudden urge to spit.
“Try it again,” said Michael. “You need to learn how to disarm your opponent. If it comes down to a battle of stamina, you’ll lose.”
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