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"You were falling aggressively."

I grin. "Still counts."

"No."

We collide again. Harder. Faster. The blades become almost secondary. Hands. Shoulders. Hips. Weight.

Combat at close range. Rhyven traps my weapon arm. I catch his wrist. He steps behind me. I drop my center of gravity. Use his momentum. He expects it.

Obviously. His arm wraps briefly across my middle as he stops the throw. For one second my back is pressed against him. Fully. Heat everywhere. His chest rises against my shoulders. My hand is still locked around his forearm. Neither of us moves. One second. Maybe less. Enough. Then I stamp down on his foot. He releases me. "Cheap."

I turn. "Effective."

"Debatable."

"You let go."

"Because I value my toes."

"So I won."

"No."

"You're such a sore loser."

"I haven't lost."

"Yet."

Something flickers in his eyes. There. That spark. "Again."

Eleven twenty-three. I don't look. I know anyway.

The bell tower exists like pressure in the back of my skull. Rhyven attacks harder. Maybe he knows too. Probably. I begin provoking him deliberately. Not because it's smart. Because it works. He is almost impossible to read when calm. Annoyed Rhyven? Marginally easier. "You're slowing." I say.

"No."

"You're breathing harder."

"So are you."

"I'm smaller."

"Tragic."

"That should make you faster."

"It doesn't."

"Oh?"

His blade catches mine. Locks. We stand close. Too close. He looks down at me. "You're talking."

"I always talk."

"Exactly."

I twist free. Five minutes later I finally get him. Not completely. Enough. He overcommits on a strike because I fake right. I slip left. Drive forward. My shoulder catches his chest. His back hits the training wall. I trap his blade arm with mine. My wooden blade rests lightly against the side of his throat.