A slow, wicked grin set on the boy’s face. Wheel had pushed him hard, but Rohaan was glad for the challenge. Generally, he was a high-energy lad, and like a shepherding dog left to sit alone inside, he got destructive, impish, and wicked if he didn’t have something productive to put his energy towards. Berlin had learned this and kept him busy when he could, whether that was with work or with more mental exertion like studying maps, learning knots, and more recently, attempting to read. But like Wheel, he enjoyed a good fight. The world had always seemed to want to fight him, so he figured early on that he should rise to the challenge. Besides, he was always one to prove himself quickly and fiercely. 

Each slap of the blade had just fueled him further. While Wheel had his curse to goad him, Rohaan had anger. Not the kind of anger born of magic, but true, hardened anger born of strife, of loss, of pain. Though his technical skill with the blade itself was fledgeling and new, his spirit was tenacious. He had been focusing hard on trying to do things Wheel’s way, but now the man was giving him permission to do it his own way. 

The impish grin turned quickly to an amused snarl as the boy grew, becoming the young man who had fired rifles earlier. He was breathing hard, but that never seemed to deter him as he hefted the blade, took a few steps around Wheel as if sizing him up or feeling the ring, and then he plunged back into action. Larger, he was faster now, and stronger. More precise. He was a long way from it yet, but someday he would be a formidable opponent no matter which weapon he chose to wield—tooth or blade. Rohaan’s fighting style changed, too. Though he was always scrappy, his previous style with blade alone was stiff in comparison to the fluidity of his body language now. He had the option to shift now—he was comfortable, in his element. And he saw their makeshift fighting ring in a different way. 

After a series of parries and blows (which he still needed work on but at least had the strength to back up his maneuvers) Rohaan stepped back, crouched low and looking decidedly wolfish, and before he re-engaged, he kicked a spray of fine sand up at Wheel’s face. Any other opponent with more normal reflexes would have been blinded momentarily, disguising his quick shift to a swift hummingbird—it was as if he disappeared in a cloud of dust like a storybook magician, except the chirping buzz of his quick wings could be heard zipping through the air. After some quick maneuvers in an attempt to confuse his target, he seemed to materialize behind Wheel. There he was with his knife like an apparition, grinning madly.

Rohaan became either difficult to track or would go on the offense by changing shapes into something large that the could use in an attempt to throw Wheel off balance or to get his legs out from underneath him.  Sometimes he would put what Wheel had taught him about the blade to use, and other times he would default to his usual changing of shapes. He was well lathered in sweat before the rugged blonde became a wiry boy again and he let the blade slip from his fingers into the sand. He couldn’t speak—he was gasping for air—but even as he swayed tiredly, he lifted one hand and touched two fingers to his forehead, then brought his fist to his chest. A Vokurian salute—the first one Rohaan had ever given Wheel. And then, spent, he dropped to his knees with a faint smile still lingering on his lips. 

“A’ae si tennanae, Estahan? Have I done good, Teacher?”