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The breath escapes Sophus in a feeble wheeze as he meets the ground.
The Corvosi instructor scoffs and sheathes his sword, leaving the salle without a backwards glance. The previous two months of training have come to little result, each session of instruction lasting little more than a few seconds. The full extent to which Sophus could withstand the instructor’s expertise, and the full extent of the instructor’s leeway to beat the emperor’s prized grandson.
He coughs weakly as he struggles to his feet, his arms shaking as he levers himself up. But as meager as his progress has been, Sophus has gleaned some learnings of merit. For one, Corvosi swordsmanship requires the accumulation of aether in the blade, a feat otherwise impossible for a Garlean. For another, while that aether is conducted through a bearer’s hands, it is best to first collect and condense that aether in the body's core.
His measurements at last complete, Sophus retrieves the contents of his pocket. Three small shining fragments, and an ornate letter opener. Each object was hard won, the crystals prised from a disused war trophy, and the letter opener stolen from the library at dark, all beyond the watchful gaze of any servant or guard.
Sophus goes to follow unseen in the instructor’s footsteps. He has more still that he would like to learn.