The figure on the rim froze, young, near Soren's own age, skin pale as a peeled almond under the black lacquer half-armor. Not a merc. Academy issue, unmistakable even in the dark: the segmented plates, the blue band at the collar. The helmet's visor was up, face as blank as a chalkboard, no anger, no nerves, just the bone-white focus of someone trained to take the first move and survive the second.
Soren did not speak. He waited for the kid to talk, or attack, or blink.
The kid attacked.
The first strike didn't aim to kill. It was a tap, a test. Soren parried, then let the next blow through just far enough to gauge the intent: fast, but not reckless; trying to measure, not to end.
