The clang of metal echoed repeatedly through the training yard, each impact reverberating like a contained explosion. Damon moved with almost predatory precision, sliding sideways, dodging by a hair's breadth, counterattacking with a short blade that seemed too light for the damage he could inflict.
The knight in training—a larger, stronger boy, wearing partial armor—panted as if he had run miles. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His wide eyes tried to follow Damon's movements, but failed miserably.
"Focus," Damon murmured, without even seeming tired. "If I intended to kill you, you would already be gone."
The boy swallowed hard. He tried to advance with a vertical strike. Damon spun his body and passed through him like a wind—effortlessly, without haste—and a quick sting to the knight's neck marked the exact spot where he would have died.
Harven, outside the arena, crossed his arms.
