I follow, adjusting my grip again. The sword feels right in a way the old one never truly did. Now I just have to prove I’m worthy of it.
Thane rolls his shoulders, drawing his own sword—a longer, heavier blade than mine. Built for power and endurance. I flex my fingers, my pulse kicking up.
I know this is different from hand-to-hand combat. But knowing doesn’t make this any easier.
Thane lifts his sword between us, murmuring something under his breath. A pulse of energy ripples through the air,subtle but unmistakable.
I tense, my grip tightening around the hilt. Magics. The blade in my hands shimmers faintly. So does his. A soft glow flickering along the edges before fading.
“Relax,” Thane says, his gaze steady. “It’s just an enchantment.” He lowers his sword slightly. “For now, when they strike, you’ll only feel pressure. No cuts. No bruises.”
I blink. “So I can’t kill you?”
His lips twitch. “You’d have to land a hit first.”
I scowl. “I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
I narrow my eyes, grip tightening.
Fine.
He tilts his head, still watching me. “This protection won’t last forever. Over time, I’ll lessen the enchantment so you learn to fight with pain. A fight without consequence teaches you nothing.”
I swallow hard. Of course he would think that. He expects pain. Trains with it.
And soon, I will too.
Thane raises his sword. “Let’s begin.”
I move first.
I step in, bringing my blade down in a quick arc—fast, direct, efficient. Thane parries easily, his sword deflecting mine with a flick of his wrist. The impact sends a dull pressure up my arm—not pain, but a weighted thrum, like striking solid force without resistance.
I barely register it before he counters. I dodge, twisting to the side, but he’s already repositioning, his blade coming for me in a controlled downward strike. I block, but just barely.
My sword vibrates from the force, the pressure rippling through my grip. He’s testing me, feeling out my reflexes, my instincts.
I reposition, then strike again—faster this time. He meets it with precision, deflects, drives forward. I’m already retreating. He’s not letting me breathe.
Steel clashes against steel, the dull impact humming through my arms. I adjust, try to predict his next movement, but he’s too fluid, too controlled. I swing—he redirects effortlessly. I step in—he’s already gone. Every attack I throw misses its mark. He’s too damn fast.
Tap—ribs. Death blow. I barely recover before—
Tap—chest. Death blow. I swing, fast and sharp, but he knocks my blade aside like I’m not even trying.
Tap—neck. Death blow. Frustration coils tight in my chest.
How is he doing this?
I grit my teeth, shifting my stance, trying to anticipate instead of just reacting, but it doesn’t matter. He’s always a step ahead.
Tap—stomach. Death blow. I growl under my breath, heat crawling up my spine. He’s not evenbreathing hard.
I throw more power into the next strike, aiming for his side, but he sidesteps effortlessly, sword flashing. The deflection stings, sending a sharp shock through my arms. Like he’s correcting a mistake I don’t even realize I’m making.
Tap—shoulder. Death blow. I exhale sharply, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. I’ve trained before. I’ve fought before. But this—this isn’t a fight. It’s alesson I didn’t ask for.
