The clatter of swords rang out. Steel hissed against steel; wood cracked against bone. Boys stumbled through forms while their partners, the risen dead, moved with a rigid steadiness that would not tire or flinch. Their eyes were milked over; their skin pulled drum-tight.
The captain barked sequences: high guard, turn the shoulder, sweep, step in. A boy’s blade knocked free, and the dead thing he faced did not chase the opening; only returned to ready stance. Mercy by command, not intention.