The courtyard behind Elder Lao's house was a wide stone square, cracked in places where moss had claimed the forgotten years. Rain still clung to the tiles, turning each step into a muted splash. Overhead, the sky hung heavy and gray—neither storming nor clearing, as if it too was waiting for the clash to begin.
Khael stood in the center, arms folded, eyes on the two men facing each other. "Ready?" His voice carried across the yard, sharp enough to slice through the damp air.
Braggen Mossvale grinned, the bark along his jaw creaking faintly. "Ready."
Juno Arkai rolled his shoulders once, his gaze calm but intent. "Ready."
Khael raised a hand. "Begin!"
They moved.
Two Taishin practitioners—cut from the same cloth but stitched differently.
