The courtyard shimmered under the midday sun, a soft golden hue reflecting off the polished armor of the knights who stood in rows. The marble columns of the lord's estate rose high behind them, banners swaying in the gentle breeze.
Lucas, Nolan, and Dante stood before the young lord, still unsure what to make of him.
Alaric Von Heavensbane — the name itself carried weight. Dressed immaculately in a fine-tailored suit, he looked nothing like a warrior. His hair framed a calm, charming face; his eyes, a shade between grey and silver, gleamed with unreadable confidence.
Yet beneath that serenity, there was something else. Something sharp — a presence that commanded the room without trying.
"Let's have a bit of fun, shall we?" Alaric said lightly, stepping forward. His voice was warm, composed, too smooth to distrust yet too perfect to believe. "Sir Gallagher tells me our guests from the Church are quite skilled. I'd like to see it for myself."
Gallagher bowed slightly. "My lord, they are still young trainees, but—"
"Oh, that's the best time to test them," Alaric interrupted, smiling. His eyes drifted toward Lucas and Dante. "You two — you seem full of fire. Which of you will spar with me?"
Dante instantly stepped forward, hand already on his hilt. "I'll do it."
But before he could take another step, Alaric raised a finger. "No… not you."
His gaze shifted to Lucas. "You. The one with the raven."
Lucas blinked, startled. "Me?"
"Yes." Alaric smiled faintly. "Something tells me you'll make it interesting."
Hugin cawed softly from his perch on a nearby column, feathers glinting like obsidian and starlight.
Lucas hesitated but nodded. "If it's your wish, my lord."
The knights formed a circle, murmuring among themselves. Gallagher handed Lucas a practice sword, its edge dulled but its weight very real.
Alaric, on the other hand, borrowed a slender blade from one of his knights — silver with gold trimming along the guard. He handled it like it was a feather.
---
The Duel Begins
Gallagher raised his hand. "Begin!"
The sound of steel echoed immediately. Lucas lunged first, striking with clean precision — a disciplined motion honed by months of training. Alaric parried effortlessly, his movements almost lazy, his smile never faltering.
"Your form is impressive," Alaric said between clashes. "Efficient. But predictable."
He twisted his wrist, sending Lucas's sword sliding aside. Lucas barely regained footing, his boots skidding across the courtyard stones.
"Your speed is deceptive," Lucas countered, swinging again. "You fight like someone who's studied a thousand styles."
"Or stolen them," muttered Dante under his breath from the sidelines.
Each strike rang sharper. The tempo rose. Lucas pressed forward, using strength to force an opening, while Alaric moved with unsettling grace — every dodge perfectly measured, every swing precise to the inch.
The knights watching began whispering.
"That footwork — that's Sir Renold's technique."
"And that stance… isn't that Gallagher's?"
Lucas noticed it too. Every move Alaric used wasn't his own. It was borrowed — reflections of the knights who surrounded him.
Then came the sudden shift.
Alaric stepped back, raised his sword high — and brought it down with monstrous force.
> "Cleaving Slash."
The blade cut through the air like thunder, slamming into Lucas's guard. The sheer weight sent Lucas to one knee, his arms trembling under the pressure. The ground cracked beneath him.
Gasps filled the air.
But Lucas didn't fall.
He slid his foot, angled his wrist — and deflected the force just enough to twist his sword upward.
The movement was fluid, instinctive.
He spun with the recoil, letting the sword trace a smooth, continuous curve.
> "Flowing Slash."
The strike swept past Alaric's shoulder, stopping just short of his throat.
When the motion froze, the courtyard went utterly silent.
Alaric's blade hovered mere inches from Lucas's eye — gleaming in the sunlight.
And Lucas's sword point hovered just below Alaric's chin, perfectly placed to pierce his throat.
---
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Lucas, on one knee, stared up at Alaric — breathing hard, sweat glistening on his brow.
"Your swordplay…" Lucas said quietly, still holding the position. "It's beyond anything I've seen, my lord."
Alaric looked down, his smile returning — this time softer, almost sincere.
"And yours," he replied calmly, "is far too refined for your age."
The air was thick with respect — and danger.
Then Alaric slowly lowered his sword, letting the tension dissolve. Lucas followed suit.
As they both stood, the knights erupted into applause, though most still looked uncertain whether they'd just witnessed a spar — or something far more important.
Gallagher stepped forward. "A draw."
Alaric nodded. "Indeed. A most enjoyable one."
He turned to Lucas, eyes glinting. "You've impressed me, Lucas. I look forward to seeing how far your light can shine."
Lucas bowed slightly, unsure whether it was praise or a challenge.
---
The Moment After
As the knights dispersed, Dante crossed his arms. "He chose you on purpose. He knew you'd push him."
Nolan frowned. "No, he studied you. Every reaction, every swing — he was watching."
Lucas said nothing. His gaze flicked to Hugin, who remained still, eyes glowing faintly red.
The raven whispered softly, voice like the wind through trees.
"The mirror has cracks, little one. Beware what it reflects."
Above them, Alaric stood at the balcony, watching them leave.
The afternoon sun set behind him, casting his long shadow across the courtyard — sharp, elegant, and just a little too dark.