The first fight of the day was a best-of-three match between Veronica and the person my opponent from yesterday had mentioned which was coincidentally his sister.
Just hearing that already made things more interesting. Family pride always made these kinds of matches a little heavier than usual, like there was something more than just victory on the line.
Veronica's opponent stepped onto the platform with a sword already resting comfortably in her grip. She was a swordswoman, and not the kind you'd mistake for a hobbyist. From the way she stood, from the way her eyes scanned the arena, it was obvious she had real experience. Her posture wasn't stiff, nor was it relaxed. It was balanced. The kind that only came from repetition, from muscle memory carved into the body through countless battles.
This wasn't someone who picked up a blade because it looked cool.
She looked like someone who lived with it.
