Spar

The training hall was quiet now, most of the cadets having left after the intense session.

The faint smell of sweat and the muffled clang of distant weapons still lingered in the air.

Elijah stood near the edge of the mat, towel draped over his neck as he wiped the sweat from his face.

"Still here, huh?" Visconti's voice cut through the silence as he approached, twirling his sleek rapier lazily in one hand. "Thought you'd head back to the dorm by now."

Elijah glanced over to see Visconti approaching, his signature rapier strapped to his side.

He looked far too energetic for someone who had just finished training.

Elijah glanced at him, then back at the towel he was folding. "Wanted to cool down a bit before leaving."

Visconti's grin widened. "Cool down by sparring with me, then. One-on-one. Just swords. No gifts."

Elijah raised an eyebrow, then glanced around the room. His own sword wasn't with him; he'd left it back in the dorms. "I didn't bring my sword."

Visconti shrugged, nodding toward the racks of practice weapons along the wall. "Plenty of options right there. Pick one."

Elijah stared at him, deadpan. "And you'll use your own rapier? Yeah, no."

Visconti blinked, then grinned. "What? Afraid of a little disadvantage?"

Elijah shot him a flat look. "You want me to use a training sword while you're holding your own rapier? Seriously?"

Visconti shrugged, his grin unfaltering. "It's just for practice. And hey, you're good enough that it shouldn't matter, right?"

"Every swordsman knows their blade is an extension of themselves," Elijah said, crossing his arms. "You want me to grab some random sword I've never touched while you're wielding your perfectly balanced, custom-forged rapier? Yeah, no thanks. Not happening."

Visconti laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Fair point. Fine, I'll grab a practice sword too. Happy?"

Elijah hesitated, then nodded. "Fine. But don't complain when you lose."

Visconti smirked, grabbing a training rapier from the rack. "Bold of you to assume I'd lose."

Elijah sighed, glancing at the weapons rack.

The swords hung in neat rows, gleaming faintly under the training hall lights. Each one was foreign, unfamiliar.

His hand twitched at the thought of using a blade that wasn't his own, but Visconti's expectant look was hard to ignore.

He ran his fingers along the hilts, testing the balance of a few before finally settling on a simple longsword.

Elijah selected a longsword, testing its weight in his hand.

It was lighter than his own blade but not unfamiliar. "Let's see how long that confidence lasts."

Its weight was slightly off, and the grip didn't feel quite right, but it would have to do.

Visconti's grin widened as Elijah returned to the mat. "See? That wasn't so hard."

Elijah gave him a flat look. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Maybe a little," Visconti admitted, settling into his stance.

The room was quiet, save for the faint creak of their boots against the padded floor and the subtle hum of anticipation in the air.

Both Elijah and Visconti stood facing each other, their swords held at shoulder height.

The tension between them was palpable, not born of animosity but of mutual respect for each other's skill.

Visconti's grip on his rapier was light but firm, his blade slightly angled toward Elijah, ready to strike or defend in an instant.

His posture was perfect—balanced, calculated, and confident.

Elijah, on the other hand, had a more relaxed stance, his longsword steady but not rigid, as though it was an extension of his arm.

The silence shattered as Visconti moved first, closing the distance between them in a swift, fluid motion.

His rapier darted forward, aimed not at Elijah's chest but slightly off-center, a feint designed to test his reaction.

Elijah's eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward, slightly to the right, his blade moving to intercept the attack.

The movement was deliberate, measured, as though he could already see Visconti's next move.

Clang!

Their swords met, the sharp metallic sound echoing through the hall.

Visconti pressed forward, keeping his blade close to Elijah's, ensuring no room for a counterattack.

His forward thrust transitioned seamlessly into a sweeping horizontal slash, forcing Elijah to step back and parry.

But Elijah wasn't retreating; he was repositioning.

He shifted his weight, circling to Visconti's blind side.

With a subtle twist of his wrist, he brought his sword down in a straight line, aiming for Visconti's exposed flank.

Visconti anticipated the move.

He spun on his heel, using the momentum to deflect Elijah's blade with a sharp upward sweep.

The clash sent sparks flying, and for a brief moment, their faces were inches apart, their breaths labored but steady.

"You're not holding back this time," Visconti muttered, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"I could say the same about you," Elijah replied, his voice calm but his grip tightening.

Visconti stepped back, his rapier weaving intricate patterns in the air, a display of both control and intimidation.

Elijah didn't flinch, his longsword steady and poised.

Visconti lunged again, this time faster and more aggressive.

His strikes were a blur—thrust, parry, feint, slash—all designed to overwhelm. But Elijah met each attack with precision, his blade moving as if guided by instinct.

Their movements became a dance of steel, each step, strike, and parry a testament to their skill and determination.

Sweat dripped from their brows, their breaths coming in quick bursts, but neither showed signs of faltering.

Elijah noticed a slight shift in Visconti's stance—a subtle drop in his left shoulder.

It was an opening, small but significant.

He moved to exploit it, his sword slicing through the air in a diagonal arc.

But just as his blade was about to connect, Visconti twisted his body, using the momentum to bring his rapier around in a counterstrike aimed at Elijah's midsection.

Time seemed to slow as their blades moved, each attack carrying the weight of their experience and intent.

Elijah's mind raced. He's testing me, pushing me to my limit. But… why does it feel like he's holding back?

The clash of their swords rang out again, a crescendo of sound and energy that seemed to shake the very walls of the hall.

And then they froze, both swords poised in mid-air, mere inches from their targets.

"Enough!" a voice boomed from the doorway.

Both Elijah and Visconti turned, breathing heavily, their weapons still raised.

Standing there was their instructor, arms crossed and an unreadable expression on his face.

"You two," the instructor said, his tone low and measured, "have proven that you're more than capable. But if you keep going like this, you'll tear each other apart."