Elion stood amidst the chaos of a bustling courtyard. Around him, trainees clashed in drills and sparring matches, the clang of metal echoing through the underground space. Like every other day, he faced off against Eshrod—arms extended, both hands gripping a slender, curved blade.
This time, Farha sat nearby, cross-legged on the gravel, her silent gaze fixed on the duel. As always, she did not make a sound, but her attention never wavered.
Eshrod launched into her usual unrelenting torrent of strikes. But Elion held his ground, blocking and dodging with fluid precision, weaving through each attack like he could see the blows before they landed.
In a way, he could.
Chromatic threads of light danced along Eshrod's form—threads only he could see—each one betraying intent, motion, weakness. With each movement, they told him exactly where to go, when to strike and how to survive.
A glancing blow from her dull longsword scraped his side, but he barely flinched. In that moment, as her balance shifted and she couldn't recover in time, he committed. Elion swung his blade with full force, a clean arc aimed at her neck.
Her free hand shot out, gripping the edge of his blade and shoving it aside.
Elion's eyes widened.
What the hell?
It wasn't a flashy counter. If anything, it was reckless. If they'd been using real blades, she'd have mangled her hand. But she did it without hesitation.
He didn't pause to question it. His foot shot out, landing squarely in her stomach and sending her stumbling back. Eshrod didn't fall, but the impact clearly winded her. She leaned against her sword, panting, dirty-blonde hair obscuring her face.
Elion lowered his weapon slightly.
"Why did you grab my sword?" he asked, incredulous. "That doesn't seem like a great move in a real fight."
She smirked, eyes flashing.
"What? You think I'd get cut?"
Here we go…
"I mean… yeah? That's kind of how swords work."
"Right. So why say something so obvious?"
"Which means that in a real fight…" Elion pressed, "I would've won."
Eshrod looked at him for a moment, then shrugged, her smirk deepening.
"Sure. You won. Congratulations."
Wait, what?
Elion blinked, momentarily stunned. That wasn't the sarcastic deflection he expected. He glanced toward Farha, hoping for some hint of clarity, but she remained as unreadable and aloof as ever.
Eshrod stepped closer, her voice calmer now.
"You've really improved since we got here. Honestly… I'm a little impressed."
There was an odd sincerity in her tone—something Elion had learned to be cautious of.
"Right now?" she continued. "I'd say you're almost a swordsman. With a bit more practice, you might actually be able to survive out there."
She paused.
"Too bad we don't really have that kind of time."
Huh… I guess I didn't know her as well as I thought.
A tall, black-haired young man approached the group. Elion recognized him—it was Joart, one of his roommates. He held a standard-issue straight sword that looked worn and chipped from use.
"May I interest you in a spar, Lady Eshrod, if I recall correctly?" he asked, his voice smooth and overly polite.
Elion laughed internally.
Talking that way to the chaos gremlin? Bold move.
"Heh, alright," Eshrod said, clearly amused, before slipping into her usual, unorthodox stance.
Elion watched closely. Observing others spar often revealed insights that were easy to miss when caught in the chaos of battle.
Joart was good—his technique was clearly based on what the instructors taught, but modified, personalized. He fought low and dirty. There was nothing elegant or noble about it—it was brutal, efficient, and completely devoid of honor.
Elion found it oddly compelling. Despite his carefully maintained gentlemanly image, he'd never cared much for honor. His father had indulged in it, and Elion never understood the appeal. There was a certain freedom in fighting without those constraints.
As the bout continued, Elion couldn't tell who would win if he faced Joart himself. The man had a solid foundation and a refined edge, but the cook's ability allowed him to read the flow of combat more clearly—maybe that would give him the upper hand.
Against Eshrod, though, Joart was losing ground. She broke a sweat, her style subtly adjusting to counter his aggressive, offense-heavy approach. In the end, she deflected his strike and slipped behind him in one fluid movement, slamming the pommel of her sword into his back and sending him to the ground.
"You're quite the pain in the ass to fight," she muttered, panting slightly. "Not an insult, by the way. It's effective."
Joart stood and plastered on a fake friendly smile, which made Elion grimace.
"Thank you for the spar. As I suspected, your skills are… exceptional."
Is that how I sound all the time?
Elion shook his head.
No. Mine's definitely more convincing.
Joart left not too long after. Elion was about to let the last few minutes of sparring go by while taking it easy, but Farha went to grab a sword. It looked like Eshrod's longsword, albeit shorter and with a longer hilt, allowing for greater control. She pointed it at him, gesturing to get ready for a spar.
…I'm in danger.
The young man stood up slowly, looking warily at the tall, black-haired girl pointing a sword at him.
When he assumed his stance, she lunged at him like a Lurker catching prey. She was ruthless, commanding the battle and bending it to her rhythm. It was different than Eshrod, who seemed to have learned to fight in real life-or-death situations.
Farha was more perfect and precise, but less flexible in her ways with the sword. Her graceful body danced a flawless waltz of steel, but it sometimes staggered when Elion introduced his own variables into the mix.
A thrust created a breeze, sending his hair back—he ducked, aiming at the legs. She twisted her body just enough to dodge before chaining multiple slashes that were deflected with varying degrees of precision by Elion.
She won't give me time to breathe. I can't continue on like this…
He aimed for a weakness in her stance—but missed, overextending himself, leaving him in an awkward posture, forcing him to block a devastating strike without his full strength. The blow sent him flying back, landing awkwardly on his shoulder—probably dislocating it.
There was no time to indulge the pain—she was already lunging at him from above. The tip of her sword aimed straight for his heart.
She's really going to kill me!
At that moment, Elion felt a hint of dread tighten in his chest. He couldn't react. He didn't see how she would change the trajectory of her blade mid-air like that. His body reacted on its own—he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
After a second, nothing hit him.
He tentatively opened one eye. She was standing over him, her sword sunk deep in the gravel right next to his chest. He could feel the cold steel against his skin—it had pierced his tracksuit.
People had gathered around since the sparring session had come to an end while they were fighting, but they hadn't heard Instructor Plark call it out amidst the fury of battle. The expression on the recruits surrounding them was a mix of surprise and a hint of fear.
Farha's dark hair fell in loose strands, hiding her face. Only Elion could see it because it was hanging over his. A twisted expression of delight contorted her features, pure instinctual glee. She quickly replaced it with surprise at the crowd surrounding them, which, in turn, shifted to concern and embarrassment when she saw his limp shoulder and the position they were in.
She stepped back, quickly helping him up. Then, grabbing Elion's injured arm, she tugged on it, making him groan in pain. It wasn't random—she knew what she was doing, but it still hurt like hell.
With a light crack, his shoulder fell back into place. The pain did not subside though.
Farha looked around at the faces watching, bowed her head slightly at Elion as if apologizing, then ran off.
What… what just happened?
Eshrod was looking at the scene in amusement from afar, but Elion spotted a hint of curiosity on her face.
The young man stared after Farha, dazed. Instructor Plark approached, having noticed the commotion.
"You alright?" he asked.
Elion nodded absently.
"Yeah."
His heart was racing, his breathing uneven, this could have been very bad.
Eventually, he pulled himself together and went on with his day. Tomorrow, they would depart for the expedition. There was no time to relax.