Lyria steps back, her hand brushing mine once as she moves out of the immediate space.
“Remember,” she says quietly, her voice just for me. “Make him react.”
I nod.
Then step forward.
The distance between us settles.
Measured.
Deliberate.
My father doesn’t draw a weapon immediately.
He doesn’t need to.
Neither do I.
“You’re calmer,” he says.
“I am,” I reply.
“That’s new.”
“So is this.”
His mouth shifts slightly.
Not quite a smile.
Then he moves.
Fast.
Faster than before, his opening strike cutting clean through the space between us, angled to break stance instead of test it. I don’t meet it head-on. I shift with it, letting the force pass, stepping just inside the edge of it instead of away.
His second strike comes immediately.
I’m already moving.
Not reacting.
Anticipating.
The difference is small.
But it matters.
Steel meets steel for the first time, the sound sharp and clean, the vibration running through my grip as I catch and redirect instead of block. He adjusts, of course he does, his movements tightening, refining, pressing for control.
I don’t give it to him.
I shift again, breaking the rhythm before it settles, forcing him to follow instead of lead.
“Better,” he says, his voice carrying through the clash without strain.
“I’ve been practicing,” I reply.
