“Real swords, Father?”
He strode toward the pool at the base of the falls, water churning silver around the stones.
“This test calls for real danger.”
Spray clung to Viktor’s skin as he followed, sword heavy in his hand.
Amerei climbed a nearby boulder, mist haloing her like flame.
Storne dragged the flat of his blade through the cascade, droplets hissing on steel. He looked back at Viktor from over his shoulder.
“With control, you can move fire even through water.”
Viktor raised his sword.
Flames licked the edge as he split the stream with a single sweep. The water parted around him, heat and spray colliding in a burst of steam.
“Good,” Storne said.
“Now—assume your stance.”
Viktor lifted his blade. Fire whispered along its edge.
The memory struck hard.
The race. The cliff.
Viktor rising from the water with fire in his heart and steel in his hand.
Those were practiced blades then. The swords now, lethal.
Storne circled him, water streaming from his shoulders.
Viktor nodded once.
Steel met steel beneath the roar of the falls.
Viktor matched him strike for strike—disciplined, precise, relentless.
But Storne’s blows pressed harder, sharper, testing not his skill but his temper. Twice their blades locked, and twice Storne twisted dirty—heel to knee, shoulder to chest.
Viktor staggered, fury flaring, but held his ground.
“You’ll never face honor in Zeporah’s court,” Storne snarled. “Do you hesitate when your enemy cheats?”
Another clash.
Sparks burst where flame kissed steel.
Storne drove forward, feinted left—then thrust his unguarded hand into the path of Viktor’s swing.
Time broke.
Viktor saw the arc, the helpless flesh, the certainty of ruin. Instinct surged—wind and fire snapping down his arm, halting the strike a breath from Storne’s wrist.
“I could’ve taken your hand!” Viktor ground out.
Storne looked from the trembling blade to Viktor’s eyes.
