(Sable POV)
Morning in Dracula's castle was a relative term—no sunlight touched these halls. Instead, a muted, gold-tinted glow from enchanted sconces lit the corridors, eternal twilight with no escape. I found Adrian in one of the high-ceilinged training halls, already moving.
He didn't notice me at first. Or maybe he did and didn't care. The man was a pale streak of motion across the room—golden hair whipping like silk, his longsword carving bright arcs as it moved without his hand. Literally without. His blade floated in the air, spinning around him in a blur of silver and magic as he stood calmly at its center. Then, with a single thought, the weapon snapped back to his grip as if eager to be held.
"...Show-off," I muttered under my breath.
Golden eyes cut toward me, amused. "You're late," Adrian said, voice like polished steel—smooth, cool, cutting in its own way.
"I was early until I had to walk half a mile through a house the size of a city," I shot back, though my voice lacked bite.
He didn't respond, just motioned me to step into the sparring ring—a polished marble circle in the middle of the hall, surrounded by racks of practice weapons. I handed command of my Knights to their own patrol outside, their distant awareness like three dim lanterns in my mind, and stepped in.
"You're seeking instruction in swordplay," he said, taking position opposite me. Not a question.
I nodded, hand resting on the bracelet that hid the First Star. "I've… been relying on tricks. Folding, proxies, fire. It's worked. But…" I shrugged. "Last world, brute force was enough. Here, I get the feeling I'd lose my head in ten seconds."
Adrian tilted his head slightly, like he was listening to more than just my words. Then he drew his blade in one smooth motion, and for a moment I saw why even seasoned warriors feared him. The sword didn't just come free—it appeared, as though the very air delivered it to him out of respect.
"Then let us see what you can do," he said.
I summoned the First Star, the bracelet unraveling into its silver blade with a flare of white. The air between us tightened.
"Begin."
I lunged first, because waiting for him to strike felt like begging to die. My sword swept in a horizontal slash—clean, practiced enough. Adrian blocked it with barely a flick of his wrist. The impact jarred my arms like I'd hit a wall.
"Too rigid," he said, calm as breathing.
I gritted my teeth and came again, folding behind him mid-swing. My blade cut down toward his back—only to meet nothing. He'd vanished in a streak of gold and reappeared at my left, his sword tapping the side of my neck before I could blink.
I froze. "...You just teleported."
"Moved faster than you could see," he corrected. "Try again."
I did. Again and again. Slash, thrust, fold, feint—I threw everything I had at him, and he dismantled me like a bored teacher correcting a toddler's handwriting. His speed was inhuman, his reflexes unyielding. Every time I thought I had an opening, his blade—or worse, his floating blade—was there to close it.
At one point, I tried to get clever, folding above him and dropping down in a downward strike. He didn't even look up. His sword flew from his hand mid-parry, intercepted me mid-air with a force that knocked the wind out of me, and returned to his grip as I hit the floor with an undignified grunt.
Adrian's lips curved, the barest ghost of a smile. "You are… creative. I will give you that."
"Creative?" I wheezed, rolling to my side. "Is that the aristocratic way of saying you fight like a drunk goat?"
He actually laughed—short, quiet, but real. "Something like that."
I got up, shaking my arms out. "Alright, teach. What am I doing wrong—besides existing?"
He walked toward me, sword lowering but never quite losing its readiness. "You rely on escape. Folding, misdirection, distance. It makes you clever. It also makes you predictable."
I blinked. "Predictably unpredictable? Isn't that a paradox?"
"It is a flaw," Adrian said simply. "When escape is your only answer, you stop learning how to stand and fight."
That one landed harder than his blade. I nodded slowly. "...Okay. Fix me, then."
He didn't soften. "I intend to."
The next hour was pain. Not just physical—though there was plenty of that. My forearms burned from blocks I barely managed to hold. My legs ached from stances he corrected with a tap of his boot to my shin. My ego took the worst of it: every time I thought I was improving, he demonstrated how wrong I was with a single elegant motion.
But buried under the humiliation was progress. Tiny, stubborn sparks of it. I started catching the direction of his speed bursts, if not the speed itself. My timing with the First Star got less frantic, more deliberate. Once, I even managed to knock his sword off-line with a surprise Star-Limb burst—earned me an approving nod before he disarmed me so fast I didn't see how.
Finally, I collapsed onto the marble, chest heaving. Adrian stood over me, blade sheathed, not even breathing hard.
"You have spirit," he said. "And potential. We'll continue tomorrow."
I groaned, sprawled like a corpse. "Do I… get a participation trophy?"
The corner of his mouth twitched again. "You get to live. For now."
I laughed, weak and hoarse. "Best prize ever."
As I lay there, the faint pulse of my Knights checking in brushed my mind—movement in the forest, just a deer. Safe. I let the awareness soothe me as much as my sore muscles would allow.
Maybe, just maybe, I could keep up here.