Thud. Clack. Swish.
Mina moved with a desperate grace that felt entirely foreign to the structured, knightly training of the North. She didn't stand tall with her chest out. She crouched, her center of gravity low to the ground, her movements reminiscent of a cat navigating a narrow ledge.
Every time she swung her sword, it wasn't a noble strike intended to parry or disarm; it was a short, sharp jab aimed at the gaps in an opponent's armor, the throat, the groin, the inner thigh.
Opposite her, Zachren stood like a tall mountain of tempered iron. He was twice her size, his shoulders broad enough to block out the faint light of the rising sun. He wasn't wearing his full plate, only a simple linen shirt that was already soaked through with sweat, clinging to the massive muscles of his chest and back. He moved with an economical precision, his wooden blade barely traveling a few inches to deflect Mina's frantic assaults.
