Three Sentence Ficathon

“You’re gripping the hilt wrong,” Aravis said, lowering her swords and studying Cor as he stumbled away from her attack and wiped at the sweat trickling down his forehead, and she added, “Don’t hold the hilt so tightly; keep your thumbs on the top of the hilt and keep your arms loose and flexible—here, like this.”

She moved to stand next to him, her shoulder brushing against his as she demonstrated with one of her own swords how he should hold his, and he watched her carefully and corrected his grip; then they resumed their stances opposite each other, Aravis circling him slowly until she struck in a sudden flash of arcing steel and disarmed him with a scissoring twist of her blades, and his sword clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees before her, her swords crossed at his bare throat.

He looked up at her with naked awe, and something tugged in her stomach in response; in an instant, her eyes wide in realization and dread filling the pit of her stomach, Aravis smothered the feeling and quickly stepped back, her voice brusque as she said, “Try again,” gesturing for him to pick up his forgotten sword—but as they continued to practice, try as she might to forget the moment, her mind was fixed on his arrested expression and her parries were distracted, until Cor at last knocked one of her swords from her hand with a shout of exultant surprise, and Aravis grit her teeth and groaned inwardly; Cor would be insufferable for at least the next three days now, and the only thing she could blame for it were her meddlesome feelings.