The training yard felt strangely hollow the morning after recovery day, as if the stones themselves remembered how many bodies had collapsed on them during the Night Circuit. The air held a tension that didn't belong to cool weather alone—the kind that comes after a shared trauma, when everyone pretends to have healed more than they have.
Serene walked carefully, though her posture remained straight. Every muscle in her ribs throbbed with an ache that pulsed in time with her steps, but she kept her face composed. She moved with the same quiet precision she always had—only she knew how slow her breath had become, how deliberately she hid the tightness in her chest.
Lira walked beside her, fingers wrapped in clean linen, steps light but a little hesitant. She pressed a palm against her side every few steps as if quietly checking that she was still intact.
She had said earlier, "My arms feel like they belong to someone else."
Serene had simply nodded. She understood. Her own body still held the cold of that night.
Taren trudged behind them, muttering half-coherent prayers about not sparring. "I swear if Thane asks us to run even ten steps, I'm crawling back to bed."
Lira almost laughed, but it came out as soft air instead of sound.
The yard was already half-filled with trainees when they arrived. Kael stood near the front, chin raised, eyes harder than usual—as if pride alone held him together. Alden stood a step behind him, silent and steady, bandages wrapped around his fingers. Rowen stood slightly apart, gloves on, stance balanced, breath slow.
He looked… unchanged on the surface. But Serene noticed something:
His shoulders were tighter.
His jaw was locked.
His movements sharper.
Not confidence.
Control.
He was holding something inside.
Thane stood at the center with a list in hand, his face carved from stone. He waited until they were gathered before speaking.
"Your bodies are damaged," he said plainly. "Good. Today we test technique."
A groan rippled through the cohort. Taren whimpered loudly. Kael's jaw tensed. Lira held her breath. Serene steadied her shoulders.
Thane lifted the scroll.
"You will spar in pairs. Controlled. No strikes meant to wound. No theatrics. If you lose balance from pain, recover. If you lose focus, find it."
His gaze swept over them once.
"Your pain is a teacher. Listen."
Serene tightened her grip on the wooden practice sword she'd brought.
Thane began reading names.
"Taren Vayne with Jorin Hale."
Taren's soul visibly left his body.
"Lira Ciryne with Mira Estel."
Lira inhaled slowly.
"Kael Drakov with Alden Rook."
Kael's eyes narrowed. Alden merely blinked.
Then—
"Serene Valehart—"
A small hush fell over the yard.
Thane's eyes shifted slightly, resting on a single figure.
"—with Rowen Aster."
It felt like a quiet thread tightened in the center of the yard.
Rowen lifted his head. Serene stepped forward. Their eyes met for only a second before they both looked away—focused, calm, without drama.
They walked to the center ring.
Serene's breath tightened at every step. Rowen's gait was steady, but his fingers curled once at his sides, betraying tension.
Thane didn't need to remind them of rules.
He simply said, "Begin."
They moved simultaneously.
Rowen struck first—a diagonal cut that would test her guard without aggression. Serene met it cleanly, the wood of her sword biting against her palm. The impact vibrated up her arm into her ribs, and pain flashed behind her breath, but she held the block firm.
Rowen's eyes flicked down, noticing her micro-flinch.
He didn't comment.
He didn't apologize.
He adjusted.
Serene switched stance, stepping light but steady. She thrust outward—not fast, but precise. Rowen parried with effortless economy, but his stance shifted slightly, his weight sliding too quickly.
Serene caught the mistake.
"You lean too early," she said quietly.
Rowen's eyes tightened at the edges. "You're analyzing."
"Isn't that the point?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he pushed forward. Their swords clacked, the sound crisp, controlled. Serene countered, pivoting on bruised feet, her breath catching once as pain crackled through her ribs.
Rowen paused at her sharp inhale—not with pity, but to reset the distance.
"You're hurt."
"So are you."
Their voices were low, even.
Not banter.
Not concern.
Rivalry.
Serene stepped in. Rowen mirrored. They circled, not quickly, but with attention—two minds reading, adjusting, refusing to yield.
Their swords connected again.
Tap.
Shift.
Breathe.
Tap.
Slide.
Adjust.
Around them, other pairs struggled.
Taren flailed in panic, apologizing mid-swing.
Lira winced every time she blocked, her hands shaking.
Kael's frustration grew with every imperfect strike against Alden.
A few trainees even retreated to catch their breath.
But Serene and Rowen didn't break rhythm.
Even when their bodies protested.
Even when their breath fractured.
Even when their injuries tugged at every movement.
This wasn't ego.
This wasn't showing off.
This was discipline meeting equal discipline.
Rowen struck high. Serene parried low.
She swept. He sidestepped.
He pressed forward. She retreated with precision.
Once—just once—Serene misjudged a pivot. Her ribs tightened. Her breath hitched.
Rowen caught it.
A quick tap of his sword touched her shoulder.
A point.
But he stepped back immediately, giving her space.
Serene steadied her breath. Her ribs burned. But she raised her sword again.
Rowen looked almost… annoyed.
"You should pause."
"No."
He studied her face.
A flicker of something passed through his eyes—confusion, irritation, understanding. Hard to tell.
Then he nodded once, a silent acceptance.
They resumed.
Serene struck harder this time—not with brute force, but with intent. She pushed him, testing the precision he prided himself on. Rowen met her strike, but his reaction was a fraction slower.
Her blade grazed his arm.
His eyes widened slightly.
Not from pain.
From realization.
She was adjusting to him faster than he expected.
He pushed back, now fully engaged, movements sharper but still controlled. Serene blocked, every contact sending fire through her bruises. She ignored it.
Rowen's breath hitched once—barely audible—but Serene caught it.
"You're tired."
"You talk too much."
She almost—almost—smiled.
Not out of humor.
Out of recognition.
They were evenly matched.
Not identical.
Not perfect mirrors.
But equal in the ways that mattered.
Thane watched them closely. At some point, even Kael stopped sparring to stare.
Eira stood at the terrace above, arms folded, eyes sharp.
She said nothing.
But Serene felt the weight of that gaze.
The clash continued.
Rowen feinted left. Serene stepped right.
She attacked center. He parried low.
Their blades kissed with soft, sharp rhythms.
Tap.
Slide.
Tap.
Tap.
Finally, Thane called out:
"Stop."
They froze instantly, blades hovering between them.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Thane stepped closer. His expression softened by a fraction—not approval, but acknowledgment.
"Repeat," he said. "Same pair. After the others finish."
Half the yard turned to stare.
Serene lowered her blade. Rowen did too.
Neither looked triumphant.
Neither looked shaken.
But something had shifted.
Rowen spoke quietly as they stepped apart.
"You forced me to adjust."
"So did you."
A pause—brief, tense, charged.
"You're better than I expected," Rowen said.
"You're harder to read than I expected," Serene replied.
Another pause.
Then he said, "Again."
Not as an order.
Not as a challenge.
As an agreement.
The second spar was shorter—sharper.
Their bodies were tired.
Their breaths shorter.
Their movements more precise because they couldn't waste energy.
Rowen began fast—testing her endurance.
Serene responded with technique—testing his balance.
Neither had much left.
Both refused to stop first.
They struck simultaneously and both lost footing, stumbling back.
Thane broke the moment.
"That's enough."
They lowered their blades.
Serene's hands trembled.
Rowen's breath hitched.
Both stood straight anyway.
Students around them whispered.
"Did they just—"
"They matched each other."
"Are they rivals now?"
"They fight the same way…"
"No, completely differently. But balanced."
"That's worse."
Kael's eyes darkened—something inside him clearly unsettled.
Alden watched with the calm interest of someone who recognized a turning point.
Lira exhaled softly, relief and worry blending quietly on her face.
Thane dismissed the session.
Students scattered, limping, exhausted, humbled.
Serene wiped her brow, hiding the tremor in her hand. She turned away from the ring.
Rowen walked past her, stopping just long enough to speak without looking at her.
"Next time…"
he said quietly, tightening the strap of his glove,
"neither of us gets a point."
Serene replied calmly,
"Then we should train for that."
He glanced at her—just once—before walking away.
Not admiration.
Not affection.
Recognition.
A rival.
As Serene left the yard, the ache in her ribs deepened, but something in her chest felt steadier than before.
Not because she won.
Not because she impressed anyone.
Not because she earned praise.
But because she had found someone who matched her discipline,
who pushed her without demeaning her,
who understood the quiet language of steel.
Someone who would force her to grow.
Someone she would one day have to surpass—
or fall behind.
And she couldn't accept the second.
The rivalry had begun.