The morning sun filtered through the treetop, dappling the yard in golden light.
Birdsong echoed through the crisp air, and a gentle breeze stirred the leaves overhead.
Clang!
Sparks flew as steel met steel.
Two figures blurred, moving with speed and precision.
Clang! Clang!
The clash echoed again as Sari twisted and lunged.
Alaric met her blade mid-swing, deflecting it in a swift motion.
"You’re fast," she said, "Sharp. Every strike’s clean."
She feinted low. Alaric adjusted, but too late.
Crack!
Her heel slammed into his ribs.
He grunted, crossing his arms just in time to blunt the blow. The impact skidded him back.
Sari didn’t follow. She stepped back, lowering her blade just slightly. "But your body’s still too rigid."
Alaric blinked. "Rigid?"
"You fight like a swordsman with a lifetime of discipline and no muscle memory," she said, circling him now.
"Your mind knows what to do, but your limbs hesitate. They don’t flow with you."
She pointed her blade at him again, not unkindly. "That discipline? It’s good. It’ll keep you alive. But against someone who lives in the moment? You’ll break."
Alaric exhaled heavily, chest rising and falling as he faced Sari who stood in front of him, calm and steady, her blade still in hand. Not even out of breath.
After yesterday’s events and after watching Renard duel that guard at the Glimor estate, Alaric had begun to realize the gap.
The sword style he had honed in his previous life, the one forged through countless wars and battlefield instincts was way different from the ones they have here. Though his style felt more prior to the ones he had encountered so far, but...
There’s always a bigger fish.
Someone faster. Someone sharper. Someone who’d seen another kind of battlefield.
That’s why he’d asked her to train with him this morning.
He’d prepared a dozen excuses in his head, in case if she declined.
But to his surprise, she had simply agreed.
Not that it shocked him completely. He’d half-expected it, but still...
And now, here they were.
Then Sari shifted her stance. Her feet slid apart, blade held loosely at her side. Her weight sank lower, hips relaxed, shoulders open.
"This one might suit you better," she said, eyes narrowing slightly. "It’s a style called Flowing Veil Style. Light on the feet and fluid. Built for those who focuses on agility more, rather than strength."
She gave a faint grin, her blade dipped in a slow arc, almost like a dance.
"It lets you move fast, cut sharply, and cast spells without locking your limbs or throwing off your balance."
Alaric’s brows lifted slightly, intrigued. He gave a firm nod and straightened. "Show me."
Sari stepped forward and began to move.
Slowly, she demonstrated the technique, gliding through the motions like water across stone. Her blade traced flowing arcs through the air, not wide or flashy, but precise, almost like drawing lines in wind, elbows relaxed, center low but never tense.
She pivoted and turned with barely a sound.
Then, she struck.
One slash, one sidestep, a roll of the wrist, and suddenly she was behind an imaginary opponent, her blade poised at their spine.
"Don’t force the blade," she said as she moved. "Let it follow your hips. Let your steps lead your strikes. The sword’s just the extension, not the origin."
She exhaled. "Every motion keeps you moving. No wasted energy. You don’t resist the blow, you glide with it, slip around it, redirect. You’re not a wall," she added, turning back to him. "You’re like a water. You don’t stop things you flow with them."
She walked back over. "Watch closely."
She repeated the starting sequence, stance, blade angle, movement of the hips, the step-slide-turn that grounded the technique.
She stopped after a full cycle and turned toward him. "Now you."
Alaric exhaled.
He stepped forward, imitating her movement.
A little stiffer. A bit too sharp at the joints. But his eyes were locked in focused.
He repeated the first half of the form, footwork and blade slowly syncing.
"Loosen your shoulders," Sari said. "And when you move, don’t just step. Flow with it."
He tried again.
But Sari shook her head lightly.
"Too much tension in your knees," she said, stepping behind him. "You’re bracing like you’re about to take a hit. This style is about momentum, not resistance."
She tapped the back of his calf with the flat of her blade. "Relax. Trust your balance. Let the weight shift with you, not against you."
Alaric nodded once, jaw tight. He inhaled slowly and moved again, adjusting less force, more glide.
"Better," she said. "Now, keep your guard loose. Don’t choke the hilt. Let it breathe."
They went on like that.
A correction here, a nudge there.
Sari demonstrating, Alaric copying and refining it.
At first, his movements lacked that instinctive grace. But each repetition peeled away some of the stiffness.
Then, on the sixth or seventh try, something clicked.
Alaric flowed through the form, step, turn, sweep, pivot. The sword carved the air with quiet precision. His body no longer fought the motion; it became part of it.
Sari watched, arms crossed under her ample bosom, one brow raised.
Then after finishing the final step, he rested the blade on his shoulder.
"Hmm," Sari nodded, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "That’s more like it."
Alaric exhaled again, slower this time. His crimson-red eyes flicked toward her.
Then he spoke.
"Let’s have a spar."
Sari raised a brow, tilting her head slightly. "Don’t you want to practice a bit more before that?"
Alaric shook his head.
"I learn faster under pressure. And besides..." His lips curved slightly. "It’ll be more efficient this way."
She studied him for a second longer. Then nodded.
"Okay."
Sari took her stance, one foot angled, her sword lowered casually but not carelessly.
Alaric mirrored her, a little roughly. His grip was firmer than it should be, his shoulders still carrying remnants of stiffness.
Wind stirred through the trees.
Then Alaric moved.
He dashed in, testing with a diagonal cut.
Clang!
Sari parried it easily and riposted with a low sweep. Alaric stepped back just in time, pivoting on instinct, letting her blade pass inches from his ribs.
She didn’t smile. But her eyes narrowed, focused now.
He came in again, faster this time, blade whipping upward toward her shoulder.
Clang!
Their swords locked, just for a breath.
Then she pushed.
And the real spar began.