By the time Cithria heard the faint crackle of sparks, Fiora had already stepped back.
Cithria's eyes widened. She wasn't even sure what she'd just seen, or if she'd seen anything at all.
She knew the name Lady Fiora Laurent well. Everyone in Demacia did. The greatest duelist of her generation, heir to a lineage of swordmasters so precise they could parry an arrow mid-flight. Cithria had heard the stories since she was a squire, though she'd never witnessed one of Fiora's duels herself. She'd believed the tales, of course, but what she had just witnessed cast them in an entirely new light.
Fiora had advanced by no more than a single, graceful step. Her sword arm had extended just slightly, a movement so small that most would've missed it entirely. And yet, within that subtle motion, her rapier had slashed upward and downward in two diagonal arcs so fast that the air itself seemed to sing.
Asta had met both strikes. Effortlessly.
He hadn't lunged or sidestepped. He hadn't even shifted his stance. He'd merely tilted his wrist, letting his curved black blade swivel in a tight, fluid motion, and the two attacks were stopped cold.
The brief flash of contact had produced the sound she'd heard, that soft, electric crack of metal on metal, sharp and bright like lightning kissing steel.
The courtyard was silent again before the echoes faded.
Cithria blinked, still trying to process what had just happened. It was over in the span of a heartbeat, yet she felt as though she'd just witnessed a dozen exchanges compressed into one impossible instant.
"Whoa," Darryl whispered from behind her, his tone hushed with awe. "They didn't even move their swords… What were those sparks?"
Cithria didn't answer. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She wasn't sure how to explain it, how to describe what she'd just seen.
Fiora had moved with such precision that it was almost unsettling. Every motion was deliberate, measured, and so refined that even the smallest twitch of her wrist carried lethal intent. No matter how slowly she advanced, Cithria could tell, that her blade would always reach her opponent before they had time to react.
It wasn't difficult to imagine any swordsman, even an experienced one, being caught off guard by that opening strike. Herself included.
But Asta wasn't just any swordsman.
It was only after the brief shower of sparks faded that Cithria realized what she'd actually witnessed. At first, she'd thought Fiora had caught him completely off guard, his body hadn't moved, his stance hadn't shifted. He'd just stood there.
Then she saw it.
The way his katana was angled, the flat of the blade facing forward instead of its edge. He had turned his wrist at the last possible moment, redirecting her rapier with a motion so small it was nearly invisible.
He had deflected Fiora Laurent's attack, one of Demacia's fastest, with a flick of his wrist.
Cithria exhaled slowly. These weren't two fighters testing each other. These were two masters, and their language was the sword.
Asta chuckled, breaking the silence that had settled over the courtyard. "That was… something," he said, tilting his blade lazily back into guard. "A real lethal technique you've got there. But isn't this supposed to be a duel? No killing blows, right?"
Fiora didn't flinch. Her expression remained calm, poised, though her tone carried a cool edge when she spoke. "Do you usually talk this much in a duel of blades?" she asked, her rapier lowering just slightly as she straightened, one foot sliding back into position, her pauldroned shoulder angled elegantly away from him.
"Ouch. That hurt my feelings. Princess." He shifted his stance, subtly, almost lazily, but Cithria noticed it. His back foot angled, the toes pointing inward, the weight sliding just enough to make his next step unreadable. Although Fiora's brow has twitched at the nickname, her eyes followed the movement, her rapier's tip never once wavering from the line of his heart.
For a moment, nothing moved.
Asta lunged, the ground cracking beneath his step. His blade came in low, curving like a serpent, cutting for Fiora's side. She turned her wrist, catching the attack on the thin edge of her riposte, and Cithria winced as she saw Fiora make a costly mistake.
Fiora had undoubtedly faced many formidable duelists before. Most of them, as was typical in Demacia, had been men. On occasion, she even sparred with Garen Crownguard himself, a man whose strength was nearly legendary. She had long since mastered the art of turning brute force against itself, her parries sharp enough to redirect even the heaviest of blows.
But none of them were as strong as Asta.
She realized it the instant their blades met. The sheer weight behind his strike sent a deep tremor up her arm, rattling through her bones. Fiora's heels slid backward across the stone, two quick steps before she managed to steady her stance. A faint cloud of dust rose around her boots, curling in a soft haze that shimmered in the morning light.
For the first time in years, Fiora Laurent found herself forced to brace.
Quickly, she pivoted, successfully parrying the blow. She was forced to take another step back when Asta tried to chain into another strike. "Eastern footwork," she murmured, almost to herself.
Asta exhaled a small laugh. "You actually noticed that?"
Fiora gave him a look that could have cut as sharply as her blade, a silent, elegant glare that asked why he would bother with such a pointless question. "Such is excellence," she replied coolly. "The standard expected of all Demacians."
Asta raised an eyebrow, half amused, half confused. "…Okay."
A faint smile tugged at Fiora's lips, the smallest crack in her composed demeanor, before she moved again. This time, there was no restraint, no testing of waters. Her entire body flowed into motion, the lunge perfectly balanced and executed with lethal grace.
Asta met her strike head-on, his own grin spreading wide as he brought his katana up in a sweeping parry. The impact rang like a bell, reverberating through the courtyard. Fiora's momentum carried her forward as the clash left her momentarily airborne, her cape fluttering in the wake of the force.
But she recovered instantly. Pushing off his blade with a twist of her wrist, she spun midair and landed lightly behind him in a low crouch. Her rapier darted out once more, a gleaming silver line aimed for his back, her entire momentum poured into that single thrust.
Asta's eyes flicked over his shoulder. He shifted, just a breath faster than her blade.
By the time Fiora realized what had happened, the tip of Asta's katana was already poised beneath her chin.
"I win, princess," he said with a teasing grin.
A single, near-invisible bead of blood slid down the edge of his blade, glinting crimson in the light.
Fiora froze, then exhaled softly through her nose. "So… it would seem."
She straightened, sheathing her rapier with practiced calm, "This duel," she said quietly, "is concluded."
Asta chuckled, sheathing his katana as the last traces of tension bled from the air. "You're not all that bad, princess," he said with a crooked grin. "Though I'd really like to know why you decided to challenge me in the middle of the road."
Fiora arched a brow, her poise as unshakable as ever. "I believe I mentioned that I sought to test your worth, to see it for myself."
Asta tilted his head, his expression twisting with mild confusion. "Yeah, but why though?"
For the first time since the duel began, Fiora's lips curved into something resembling amusement. "Because," she said, her voice calm, clipped, yet carrying that effortless grace that made everything she said sound like a declaration, "I am Fiora Laurent, current head of House Laurent."
She turned with fluid precision, her cloak sweeping lightly behind her as she began to walk away. Over her shoulder, she added, almost as an afterthought, "And I suppose… you are adequate."
____Flash Back End____
It had been three days since Darryl returned from his very first mission with his captain, three days since his first real fight, and that strange encounter with the noblewoman.
He rolled his shoulders, adjusting the leather straps of the heavy satchel slung across his back. The bag was filled with rough, uneven stones, more than twenty of them by his last count. It wasn't exactly the kind of thing he'd imagined carrying after a mission, but then again, this had been Sir Garen Crownguard's idea. And that, in itself, was still hard to believe.
Just yesterday, the Sword-Captain himself had told Darryl he intended to teach him the sword.
He'd nearly dropped the training blade right there when Garen said it.
A shout from the street snapped him back to the present. Darryl swerved out of the way just in time as a carriage rumbled past, the horses snorting clouds of mist in the cool morning air. Behind him, Captain Asta strolled at his usual unhurried pace, hands dragging behind his cloak, eyes scanning the city with mild curiosity.
Darryl tried to do the same, -after all, he was in Demacia's capital, the great heart of the kingdom- but his gaze kept flicking to the shadows between buildings and the rooftops above. He'd counted at least a dozen MageSeekers since they'd entered the city, each one pretending not to watch them.
But Darryl could feel their eyes.
Even though he and Asta were only headed toward one of the crafters Sir Garen had personally recommended, the MageSeekers' presence made the back of his neck itch.
Asta ignored the obvious onlookers, dragging the cart behind him with materials collected from the seven Gromps that Darryl had defeated. He pulled it effortlessly with a single arm, as if it weighed nothing. Darryl couldn't help but marvel, his captain's strength was staggering to see always, almost unreal.
He made sure to stay within sight, sticking close to the middle of the road as Asta had instructed. "Don't wander too far," the captain had warned, and Darryl obeyed, half in awe, half in caution.
His eyes widened as a massive, no, colossal, figure came into view, Galio, Demacia's greatest protector. Darryl felt a mixture of fear and fascination.
Even when he was far younger, stories of Galio were everywhere, how the living statue had risen to defend Demacia from Noxian threats, how it had single-handedly turned the tide in countless battles.
But there was another side to it, one that made Darryl uneasy now that he knew what he was. Galio had been created to counter mages. His mere presence could cripple spells, neutralizing the very magic that mages relied upon.
"Oh! I think it's this way! Darryl, over here!" Asta's voice rang from behind, snapping Darryl out of his thoughts.
Darryl jogged the last few steps to catch up, his boots clattering against the cobblestones. He forced himself to focus on the path ahead, though his eyes couldn't help but dart back toward Galio every few seconds.
Asta turned a corner, and Darryl followed, the cart rattling behind them. The city smelled of smoke and fresh bread, a strange mix that made Darryl's stomach tighten. Merchants were opening their stalls, shouting greetings and deals to the early crowd, but none of that seemed to touch his awareness. Every shadow, every glance from a passerby, felt loaded with meaning.
They reached a narrow street tucked between two towering buildings. At the end of it, smoke curled from a small forge, and the clang of hammer against metal rang faintly through the air. Asta slowed the cart, letting it coast gently to a stop.
"This is the place," he said, pointing toward the forge. The sign above the door read Haldor Craftworks, its letters blackened from smoke and heat. "Sir Garen said their work is exceptional. If we want the best, we go here."
As they reached the door, a bell tinkled overhead. A muscular woman with soot-streaked hands and a wide leather apron looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of Asta.
"Well, welcome to my humble..." the woman started, voice gruff but not unkind. She narrowed her eyes in recognition. "You must be Asta. Asta of Clover. Yes. Sir Garen mentioned you. I'm Elara."
"This is Darryl," Asta said smoothly, lifting one hand in introduction before gesturing to the cart. "We came to you for some specialized work for him. I've been told you're the best in the capital."
The woman's eyes flicked to the cart. Her brow lifted, and a faint smile touched her lips.
"Best, you say? That Garen. We'll see about that," she muttered, stepping aside. "Come in. Let's see what we can do. What do you have in mind?"
Asta grinned. "I want you to make a broom."
She froze for a beat. "A broom?"
Darryl groaned. "Captain!"
---
Asta laughed softly as he leaned against the door of the craftswoman's workshop. Inside, he had left Darryl speaking with the woman, going over the finer details of what he wanted his flying broom to look like.
It didn't necessarily have to be a broom, just something capable of channeling Darryl's magic and allowing him to soar through the air. Asta had no intention of enduring another grueling eight hours on horseback, the rhythm of hooves and the creak of leather still fresh in his memory.
Across the street, two MageSeekers happened to pass by, casting curious glances in his direction.
Of course, Asta pretended not to notice them, or the thirteen other MageSeekers hidden among the bustling crowd. Even above him, on the rooftops, a few more eyes followed his every move. He sighed, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. He'd have to endure this constant scrutiny a little longer.
Narrowing his eyes, he shifted his gaze to the wall beside him. "How much longer are you going to keep watching me?" he asked, his tone calm but edged with warning.
Suddenly, he felt the stalkers on the rooftops shift and retreat in a hurry. Even the MageSeekers hidden among the crowds, along with those openly observing him, seemed disoriented, unsure of their positions. One by one, they began to disperse, melting into the streets as though they had never been there.
Asta's eyes narrowed as he turned back to the wall, his attention sharp and unflinching.
"How long have you been aware of me?" a sultry female voice asked. The wall shimmered, and a brown-haired woman materialized a few feet away, her presence calm yet commanding.
Asta raised an eyebrow, regarding her carefully. "Since you became aware of me."
He looked her up and down. "I saw you in the royal palace as well, though you looked entirely different then. Transformation magic? No… I recognized you anyway, so it's too weak to be that. Illusion magic, then. Not bad, you should join the Black Bulls."
The pale woman... the witch of a thousand faces, Leblanc, leader of the Black Rose, blinked in surprise. "What?"