But with a clack of wood against wood, Oliver easily brushed her aside.
"By the way, Verdant," he said. "What tea have you prepared for us?"
He was doing it on purpose. She knew that. She knew from the moment she'd seen the teasing smiles on both their faces that they were trying to rile her up, make her lose her temper. He was doing it again, by pretending that his attention was directed elsewhere, as he looked to that boy called Peter and the tea that he was serving them.
She struck once more. He'd even presented a bit of his back this time. She swore to make him take her seriously. The sword of the Blackthorn was something that everyone took seriously.
But again, Oliver brushed her strikes away. He had the grace to look at her this time, his eyes piercing, a marvel of different colours. Were they green, or were they blue, or were they grey? A distraction – she cast the thought from her mind. Her first strike had failed, the sword as heavy, and she'd lost her speed advantage. She sought a barrage.
She struck his card, as she'd been taught to. A series of three strikes, with the aim of each one being to gain a small advantage, forcing the enemy into a worse position. It was a most excellent technique for defeating people weaker than her… But that was part of the problem – all of her techniques were for defeating people weaker than her.
The Blackthorn sword assumed the opponent to be a worse swordsman than they. The Blackthorn sword was a style built for…
"That would be a good technique, if you were stronger," Oliver noted.
Her eyes widened. He'd instantly read the origins of her style. Was it really so easy? Was it so obvious that it was a style meant to hammer at the guard of her enemy? Meant to get in close, and use the physical superiority that all Blackthorn men had in order to secure the advantage.
She'd adapted that style, to make up for her lack of strength with her speed, and she'd hammered everyone with it. She was quite sure that she was the best swordsman in their year. No, that wasn't quite true. She was by far and away the best female swordsman, but there were still a handful of boys – owing to their superior physicality – that could push their way past her.
Still, she was sure her technique was better than anyone else their age.
Calmly, Oliver brushed aside her strikes. He didn't use strength, despite having it.
He used timing, as gently as threading a needle, he hit her sword in just the right places to take the momentum out of the attack, and to turn the blade, until, by the time she hit the third strike in her combination, her sword was twisted halfway across her body, and she was in a position where it would be impossible to defend what came next.
Oliver tapped her shoulder to illustrate that point. A gentle tap. He'd winded her accidentally the day before. She'd seen how that had wounded him, to have hurt a woman… And she hated that. It made her even angrier.
He turned away, a contented smile, having proved his point.
Blackthorn turned to rush in again. He held up a hand to pause, and to her dismay, she did. His gaze brooked no argument. It seemed to demand that she do as she was told. It was like the gaze of her father only… were those golden flecks amongst the green and blue?
Oliver took the cup of tea that Verdant offered him and gave it a gentle sip.
"Most impressive," Peter applauded softly. "Our Lady Blackthorn has been the Academy's pride for some time. To see her defeated so delicately seems to be remarkable."
Peter's words were kind and seemingly carefully chosen, so that they would not cause Lasha any offence, but she hung her head anyway, biting her lip. She was being made a fool of, again, by a mere… Patrick. Someone whose House did not even have a single property or single servant to its name.
But then it struck her. Was she not in his house now? Was that not why she had come here in the first place? His was the house of the sword. They'd given up everything for it. Could there be a better generation of blade users in the entire Kingdom?
There was Arthur's family… but they… no… that was an impossibility.
The Patrick name was scorned, but not by this priest. He viewed it with reverence. Was she not there for the same reason? Was she not there because his strength with the sword so far eclipsed everyone else their age that it was almost unfair? Her feet had carried her to his door before she had even had a chance to think about it.
She'd lowered herself, pride and all, after seeing what he was capable of… because there was far more at stake for her than merely wounded pride.
Amelia got offended on her behalf for her treatment.
"What are you doing?" She asked, the aggression undisguised in her voice. "You're meant to be training Lady Blackthorn. Don't just be sipping tea, ignoring her."
"There is enough tea for everyone," Peter said, gesturing to the table with a peaceful smile.
"What am I doing? It's cold, I have not slept, I am simply enjoying the fine tea that this Academy offers," Oliver said. "Food and drink are one of this place's best qualities. I don't intend to go without. Besides, let me correct you. I am not meant to be training Lady Blackthorn.
I did not agree to that. I simply agreed to test her to see whether she was worth training."
"Test me?" Lasha repeated, her head tilted to the side. He had indeed said that this morning… But what would a test of that sort even entail? Were they not already training? "What do you need to test me for?"