First win

The changing room was narrow and warm, painted with the faint scent of resin and linen.

Lyra slipped inside with Claire, who rummaged through a metal locker for equipment while cheerfully explaining every piece.

"Jacket, glove, mask, chest protector—don't worry, I'll help you with the straps," Claire said, tossing the padded white gear onto the bench beside Lyra.

"Everyone struggles the first time. Even the future champions."

Lyra smiled, appreciating the casual confidence. "Thanks. I think I'll manage, with a little guidance."

Zoe lingered in the doorway, holding up her phone like a documentary filmmaker. "If you trip and fall, I promise I'll only show it to my closest fifty friends," she teased.

Lyra gave her a look, half fond, half warning then turned her attention to Claire's instructions.

The fabric was heavier than it looked, thick with hidden strength, and Lyra was grateful for the help adjusting the velcro and threading her long silver hair into a loose, low ponytail beneath the protective mask.

"Now, weapon." Claire selected a foil from the rack, checked the tip, and placed it in Lyra's palm.

"Fencing's all about the touch, the lightest strike wins the point. You want to use your wrist, not your whole arm. Elegant, not brute force. See?"

She demonstrated, slashing the air with a dancer's grace. Lyra mimicked her, falling naturally into the rhythm.

This was a language her body remembered: balance, precision, focus. She settled into an en garde stance, knees bent, back straight, foil extended—a perfect silhouette against the mirrored wall.

Claire's eyes widened with subtle surprise. "Someone's done this before," she murmured.

"Alright, quick rules—first to five points, training match, no need for electric sensors, just honest calls. Target is the torso, and we salute before we start." She raised her foil, touched it to her mask in a traditional salute, and Lyra mirrored her exactly.

On the strip, the rest of the world fell away. The buzz of students exploring club day faded into the background as a handful of curious onlookers gathered at the edge of the room.

Zoe perched on a bench, bouncing in her seat, mouthing silent cheers. Other club members leaned forward, recognizing quickly that this was not a typical newbie session.

Claire and Lyra faced off, foils glinting in the fluorescent light. For one brief second, Lyra's heart beat wild in her chest—not from fear, but anticipation. This, finally, was familiar ground.

"Ready?" Claire asked.

Lyra nodded. "Ready."

"Allez!"

The first exchange was gentle, almost playful. Claire advanced, probing with light jabs, testing Lyra's defense. Lyra parried easily, footwork instinctive and precise.

She watched Claire's eyes, reading the rhythm, countering each feint with measured control.

Claire landed the first touch—a clean, swift flick to Lyra's shoulder. "Point!" she called, smiling. "Don't be shy."

Lyra grinned behind her mask. "Wouldn't dream of it."

They reset. This time, Lyra advanced, finding the tempo. Her blade darted in a tight arc, forcing Claire to retreat. She faked a high thrust, then slipped low, tapping Claire's chest with the tip of her foil.

"Touché!" Zoe shouted from the sidelines, earning a few giggles.

The match picked up speed. Claire abandoned her beginner's caution, shifting into a sharper, more aggressive stance.

Her attacks came faster, footwork crisp, every movement designed to expose a weakness. Lyra relished the challenge, answering with quick parries, ripostes, and a sudden stop-thrust that caught Claire mid-lunge.

2-1.

Claire grinned now, her competitive spirit flaring. "Not bad, rookie."

Lyra's reply was a precise attack, feinting left, slipping right, landing another touch—2-2.

The crowd grew, drawn by the clash of blades and the sharp, rhythmic tap of footwork. Lyra barely noticed; she was lost in the dance, every sense tuned to her opponent's breathing, the subtle shift of weight, the glint of determination in Claire's eyes.

They traded points, the score climbing: 2-3, 3-3, 4-3. Sweat prickled beneath Lyra's jacket. Her arm moved as if with a will of its own, muscle memory from years past guiding every motion.

She sensed Claire adjusting her attacks deeper, her parries stronger. A single mistake, a late reaction, and Claire landed a quick hit. 4-4.

Now the energy was electric, the room silent but for the rasp of breath and the whisper of steel.

"Last point wins," Claire said, voice breathless, almost reverent.

Lyra nodded, forcing herself to stillness. She let the tension coil, poised like a spring. For a heartbeat, nothing moved.

Then Claire attacked a flurry of feints, fast and beautiful, each one meant to draw Lyra out.

Lyra read the rhythm, the pattern hidden in the chaos.

She let Claire commit, waited for the briefest opening, then countered with a lunge so swift the onlookers gasped. Her foil touched home dead center.

For a moment, there was only the silence of realization. Then applause erupted, echoing off the walls. Zoe shrieked, "Yes! You did it!" as Claire laughed and pulled off her mask, breathless and grinning.

"Well," Claire said, reaching to shake Lyra's hand, "you're no beginner. That was incredible."

Lyra took off her own mask, cheeks flushed, hair damp. "You made it easy to forget I was new here."

"Yeah, right," Claire teased, but her tone was warm, admiring. "Join us for real. We need more fencers like you."

Lyra found herself nodding, a true smile breaking through. The crowd was thick now—other students from club day, club members, a few professors lingering at the door.

But what caught Lyra's attention most was the subtle shimmer in the air: crystals, dozens of them, forming in a spectrum of colors.

Admiration, excitement, a handful of infatuated glances energy she could almost taste.

The contest between Celestians and demons was working its quiet magic even here, in the hearts of ordinary humans.

She let the applause settle, standing tall in her gear, savoring the moment of victory and belonging.

It was then that a slow, deliberate clap rose above the rest—a sound too smooth to be anything but a performance.

Alayah leaned against the far door, arms folded, eyes shining with wicked amusement. She was still in her own uniform, sleeves rolled, tattoos stark against her skin, rings flashing as she continued to clap. Her gaze lingered on Lyra, predatory and playful all at once.

"Impressive," Alayah drawled, a grin curling at the corner of her mouth. "Didn't know we had a swordswoman in our midst." Her eyes swept the room, sizing up the competition, then landed back on Lyra.

"Tell me, champion—care to go another round? This time, against someone who won't go easy on you?"

A murmur rippled through the crowd—some of recognition, some of anticipation. Claire laughed, shaking her head, clearly intrigued by the new challenger. Zoe's jaw dropped, her phone already pointed at Alayah like a reporter at a scandal.

Lyra met Alayah's gaze without flinching, adrenaline still hot in her veins. She could sense the magic, the rivalry, the thrill that came from standing across from an equal—or perhaps, at last, a true adversary.

She lifted her mask, voice cool and steady. "Only if you promise to keep it interesting."

Alayah's smile widened, the room crackling with expectation.

"Oh, I never do anything less."