I did not enter war as a master
I stumbled into it.

Grip wrong.
Timing off.
Breath too fast when it mattered most.
Steel in my hand,
but no rhythm to guide it.

I have felt the weight of hesitation
that half-second where doubt seeps in
and nearly gets you killed.

I have missed the mark.
Taken the hit.
Fallen back when I should have pressed forward.

There is no hiding from it.

The battlefield does not lie.
It shows you exactly what you are
unready, unfinished,
still learning how to stand
when everything is trying to put you down.

But I am still here.

Still rising through the sting of failure,
through the frustration of knowing
I could have been better
should have been better.

And I will be.

Because I am learning the language of war
not in theory,
but in bruises, in breath, in bone.

Step. Adjust. Strike. Recover.
Again.
Again.
Again.

I will find my footing.

Not all at once
but piece by piece,
battle by battle,
until the ground beneath me
no longer feels uncertain.

Until my hands stop shaking.
Until my instincts sharpen.
Until I move not with doubt
but with purpose.

I will not yield to frustration.
I will not bow to failure.

Let me falter
I will rise sharper.

Let me struggle
I will endure longer.

This is not where I end.

This is where I am forged.

And I swear
through every misstep,
every loss,
every hard-earned lesson carved into me

I will push forward.

I will stand.

I will learn.

And one day,
this war will know my name
not as someone who faltered

but as someone
who refused
to yield.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Chronos, in the year 1001 AF.