Whothefuckfencesanymore?
This woman, that’s who. Trailing her this morning was confusing as fuck, particularly when she came to a building no one ever uses.
It sits apart from the main quad, cathedral bones and stained-glass windows filtering the world to a war of red and blue. Inside, the court is polished wood, lines scored in white, the far wall mirrored so you can watch yourself lose. It smells faintly of lacquer and antiseptic. When I push open the door, the room is already awake—echoes and the soft hiss of metal slicing air.
She’s in full kit: mask on, black hair roped tight down her back, jacket zipped high, legs long in the slim fit. The practice foil in her right hand is an extension of her arm, like she was born with it. I watch her from the threshold, hidden by the slow-close door and my own bulk. She doesn’t see me, or pretends not to.
She’s dancing with a ghost. Every lunge is measured, every retreat textbook-perfect. Feet glide and stamp; the blade flickers through a routine. Not the way they teach it here—she’s older school, Italian style, all angles and tempo changes. Her moves don’t waste anything, not even sweat.
I lean against the wall. She’s impressive, I’ll give her that.
Much to my surprise, there are others in this building. I’m still confused as fuck, but maybe they’re following her too, studying her. Two girls, one boy, all in fresh whites, watching her from the bleachers like they’ve paid for front row at a gladiator show.
She dispatches the last invisible opponent with a thrust that would have taken an eye. Her body doesn’t relax, just cycles to a defensive ready, back foot steady. For a heartbeat she’s pure focus, then she drops her arm and pulls off the mask.
She sees me. I see the flick of her eyes in the mirror, the quick up-down calculation. She doesn’t flinch or look away. Instead, she puts the mask on the bench and stretches, giving me her back like it’s a test.
The three preps whisper loudly. I hear “Bam” and “Bonaccorso” in the hiss.
I step out onto the court, boots thumping heavy on the wood. The girl in the bleachers stares openly; her boyfriend’s less brave, looking down at his phone. I cross to the gear rack, hang my jacket on the post, and grab a foil.
The weapon feels light, insubstantial. I could bend it in two fingers, but it’s enough for this. I test the grip, the balance. It’s not the real kind of weapon, not the one you could use to gut someone.
I walk slowly, keeping my gaze on the glass. She doesn’t move, just tracks me by reflection, face unreadable. Her hands are steady, no tremor. She’s not afraid, or she’s very good at hiding it.
I like that.
Some instructor arrives takes one look at us and knows there’s nothing he can say to stop what’s coming. He nods to the preps. “Warm up with drills. You three, rotate pairs. No masks off.”
How the fuck is there an actual class for this shit?
He doesn’t even assign me to a group. Just pretends I’m not here, which is a better choice for everyone.
Dahlia finishes stretching, stands, and faces me full-on. “This is a closed session,” she says.
“Then close it,” I reply, and strip off my shirt.
The coach gives a warning look, but doesn’t intervene. No one ever will. I can feel the heat rising between us, from my own skin, the sick buzz that’s half fight and half sex.
She steps onto the line. Sword in hand, mask tucked under her left arm. Her eyes are molten now, the sunlight turning them gold with brown streaks, like a coffee you could drown in.
“You fence?” she asks.
“I fight with fists,” I answer. “This just doesn’t seem all that difficult.”
She nods. “Suit yourself.”
She pulls on the mask, tightens the strap. I do the same, though the helmet’s too small and pinches my skull.
We salute—hers crisp, mine barely more than a jerk—and the match is on.
She attacks first. I expect it, and she expects me to expect it. Her lunge is beautiful, but her speed is fucked, so fast I have to step back to keep her from sticking me in the throat. I parry, she recovers, resets in a breath.
I smirk. She can’t see it, but she knows.
She comes again, a beat slower, this time faking high and slicing low. I take it on the blade, twist, try to counter. She disengages, floats back, lets me chase.
We circle. The preps stop their own drills and watch, silent.
