The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long streaks of orange and violet across the edge of the training grounds. Lights from the villa's upper floor glowed faintly behind arched windows, but out here, the world was reduced to the rhythmic sound of movement—steps, strikes, breath.
Damien moved like shadow against shadow.
Boots light on the mat, body low, energy controlled. No wasted motion. No strain.
Elysia darted forward, her palm cutting through the air—aimed clean at his solar plexus.
WHIP.
Damien shifted—not back, not away, but into her motion.
He rotated his torso just enough, deflecting the strike off-angle with his forearm. His opposite hand followed up immediately—fingers brushing the inside of her elbow.
Redirect. Control.
Her balance faltered.
Only slightly.
But she felt it.
THMP.
He swept low, pivoting on his rear foot. Her leg lifted instinctively, reacting too late.
He didn't take her down.
He let her recover.
