The training grounds were quiet—too quiet.
Dust swirled in the crisp morning breeze. The sun was barely over the trees, casting long shadows across the packed dirt. Stark stood at the edge, adjusting the straps on his armor, the metal plates clinking softly with every move. His palms were slick inside his gloves.
Tark sat cross-legged on a nearby boulder, practically vibrating with anticipation. "You look great, bro. Like a knight about to get totally wrecked."
"Thanks," Stark muttered, drawing his sword. The blade felt heavier than usual. Or maybe his nerves just made it so.
Emery entered the grounds like a stormcloud—silent, steady, and unmistakably dangerous. She wore her lightweight combat armor, her twin daggers sheathed at her back. Her ponytail bounced slightly as she walked, but her expression was carved from stone.
She didn't say a word.
Stark squared his shoulders. He could feel her measuring him, dissecting his stance, his posture, his breathing. The weight of her gaze was heavier than the armor.
"Ready?" she asked at last.
"No," Stark said.
"Good." She lunged.
The impact came fast—too fast. Stark barely managed to bring his blade up in time to block her opening strike, her wooden training dagger knocking against the steel with a crack that jolted through his arms.
She twisted, pivoted, struck again.
He stumbled back, parrying instinctively, boots kicking up dirt. Emery didn't stop. She was already moving, closing the space, jabbing low, sweeping high, testing him like a predator would test prey—probing for weakness.
Stark blocked one strike, then two—then she slipped behind his guard and landed a blow to his ribs.
Thud.
The air left his lungs in a grunt.
"Loosen up," she said coolly, stepping back. "You're fighting like you're scared."
"I am scared," Stark gasped.
"Good. Now fight anyway."
Tark was on his feet now, cheering like he was ringside at a championship match. "Let's go, Stark! Use the spin move! SPIN MOVE!"
Ignoring him, Stark focused. He adjusted his grip, tightened his stance. When Emery came in again, he was ready.
He blocked. Countered. Slipped a jab. Swung—
She ducked, fluid as water, and caught his ankle with a sweep. He hit the dirt hard.
"Ugh—ow."
"Faster," Emery said. "You're thinking too much."
"Thinking is my thing!" Stark groaned, getting up, brushing dust from his face.
She smiled faintly, just for a second. "Then think faster."
They circled again. This time, Stark moved with more intent. His footwork steadied. He let his instincts drive his defense, stopped chasing perfect form. When Emery struck, he turned her momentum against her, shoving her off balance with his shoulder.
Tark lost it. "YES! Get her, bro! GET HER!"
Emery recovered quickly, eyes narrowing. "Better."
Then she moved faster.
Stark barely kept up. His breath came sharp and ragged now, armor slick with sweat beneath the early sun. Each strike she landed was like a lesson burned into his muscles—painful, precise, unforgettable.
Finally, Emery stepped back, raising a hand. "Enough."
Stark dropped to one knee, gasping for breath. His sword clattered beside him.
Tark rushed over, clapping wildly. "That was AWESOME! Bro, you almost didn't die!"
Emery crouched next to Stark, handing him a canteen. "You've got potential," she said. "You're not ready—but you're closer than I thought."
Stark took the water, trying not to collapse fully. "I'll take it."
She stood, looking down at him. "Tomorrow, same time."
He groaned. "Great."
Tark threw an arm around Stark's shoulder. "Totally worth it," he whispered.
Stark didn't argue. He just sipped the water, the taste of metal and dust in his mouth, and watched Emery walk away—already planning his next move.