Braem swung his practice sword wildly yelling nonsense. Gerome resisted the impulse to take the weapon away from the nine-year old and thrash him with it. The thought made him grin. He almost sounded like his old sword-master, the one who had beaten lessons into his hide. He wondered if he had ever been this rambunctious himself. Thinking back, he concluded that fundamentally all boys were alike- tiny storms to be contained and directed before they wrecked something.

“Braem, put that down.” Gerome said, keeping his irritation at the boy out of his voice.

The boy looked up sharply. Maybe he hadn’t kept all the irritation out of his voice.

“Your father wants you to learn the blade and has tasked me with teaching you. Do you know the difference between a live blade master and a dead one?”

Braem gave a little shake of his head.

“Discipline. Discipline will carry you through duels, wars even, and give you the tools to survive the worst situations. If you remember nothing else from today, remember that.”