polishing, getting ready for export

chapters/book1/ch05-final.md

@@ -283,7 +283,7 @@ The brief was short. Guild briefs, I was learning, operated like the guild itsel
 
 I set the brief down and flexed my right hand. Opened it, closed it. Tried to remember the last time I'd thrown a fire weave in anything other than my own head.
 
-Four years. Maybe five. The muscle memory was there — I could feel the ghost of it in my fingers, the way a sequence of runes and gestures lived in the hands long after the brain stopped rehearsing them. But muscle memory without stamina was a loaded weapon with a short fuse. I could probably manage two, three combat workings before the tank hit empty. After that, I'd be throwing punches with hands that hadn't hit anything harder than a herb crate in three years.
+Three years. Maybe four. The muscle memory was there — I could feel the ghost of it in my fingers, the way a sequence of runes and gestures lived in the hands long after the brain stopped rehearsing them. But muscle memory without stamina was a loaded weapon with a short fuse. I could probably manage two, three combat workings before the tank hit empty. After that, I'd be throwing punches with hands that hadn't hit anything harder than a herb crate in three years.
 
 The brief said "moderate." The brief was written by someone sitting in an office on Greystone Lane.