Like any good fortress, Draykor had its share of places built for ranker combat. One of the most iconic sat just beneath the eastern hall — a wide courtyard flanked by cracked columns, its stone floor etched with the scars of generations of duels. That morning, it was about to earn a few more.

  Dahlia Howell twirled her saber with ease, the blade slicing through the air as if performing for an invisible audience. Her hair, tied in a low knot, was already coming undone, sticky strands clinging to the nape of her neck. Her breath came fast, but steady. A wide, savage grin lit her face — predatory, almost feral.

  Across from her, Elwyra Drayven — daughter of the Marquess — stood tall and composed. Her bow had been set aside. In her hands, two short blades. Her style was typical of rangers: evasive, graceful, and lethal.

  Their sparring match had lasted far longer than the previous ones.

  Off to the side, beneath the shade of a stone overhang, Mogrel chewed lazily on a toothpick. The sun beat down hard, but he didn’t flinch. Beside him, Frey lounged with his chin resting on his palm, eyes half-lidded, savoring the scene like fine wine.

  “She’s fired up today,” Mogrel muttered, shifting the toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. “That’s her fifth sparring match — all with adepts.”

  “She likes new blood,” Frey replied, smirking. “And Draykor’s brimming with sharp blades. Finally, opponents worthy of her ego.”

  “Hah. She’ll drop dead soon enough. That armored mage’s still icing his ribs. And the helmetless knight? Damn near cried.”

  Frey chuckled.

  “This is probably the last one. Elwyra’s no pushover. Her mother trained her, after all — Merissa, the Black Terror herself.”

  “And Astra?”

  “Off negotiating with the Drayvens. Technically our trade envoy. Sounds like the Howell runesmiths will be busy soon.”

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  Mogrel grunted. “And the saint? The sleepy one?”

  “Rudra? Been snoozing since we arrived. One day she’ll wake up, realize the kingdom’s fallen, and go right back to bed.”

  In the center of the courtyard, steel shrieked on steel.

  Dahlia lunged in a whirling strike, her saber arcing horizontally like a blade on wind. Elwyra ducked with dancer’s precision, grazing the floor with the tip of her dagger — just shy of slicing Dahlia’s flank.

  The Howell noblewoman pulled back, laughing with a husky, wild edge.

  “That’s it! Show me what the Drayven bloodline’s really made of!”

  Elwyra didn’t answer. Her eyes narrowed, slit-like now, almost reptilian. Her skin shimmered faintly — scaled, barely perceptible. Her gaze was cold, sharp, calculating. She pivoted sideways, twisting her torso, and unleashed three quick slashes — two to open guard, one aimed at the shoulder.

  Dahlia blocked the first two. The third tore through her leather sleeve.

  Frey leaned forward, intrigued.

  “Well, well. First blood.”

  “She’s gonna pay it back with interest,” Mogrel muttered, chewing harder. “That’s her ‘now I’m warmed up’ face.”

  As if on cue, Dahlia stepped back twice, twirled her saber, and surged forward. Her footsteps struck like war drums. Every blow came down heavy, brutal, direct. She didn’t dance like Elwyra — she marched. A thunderstorm in steel.

  The final clash came swiftly.

  Dahlia lifted one of Elwyra’s blades with the flat of her saber, twisted her wrist, and slammed the guard into her opponent’s side. Elwyra staggered.

  Dahlia stopped, panting, laughing loud.

  “Enough for today?”

  Elwyra wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips.

  “For now.”

  They stared at each other. Then Dahlia extended a hand. Elwyra took it — firm, steady.

  “You’ve got skill, Drayven.”

  “You’re a beast, Howell.”

  Dahlia threw her head back in a laugh.

  “Keep praising me like that, and I might marry you.”

  Frey laughed from the sidelines. Mogrel just shook his head.

  “She’s gonna mess with the wrong person someday,” he muttered.

  “Probably.”

  A voice interrupted — deep and composed, just outside view.

  “I thought the Howells were all blacksmiths.”

  Mogrel straightened instantly. The toothpick fell from his mouth.

  Frey stood in one smooth, elegant motion, offering a graceful bow. Mogrel followed, a step behind.

  Prince Fenrel — fourth son of the royal house — stood watching them, arms crossed, with interest thinly veiled.

  “Dahlia’s a bit different from the rest,” Frey replied smoothly. “But the Howells have many branches. Not all swing hammers.”

  The prince glanced sideways at Halrik, his advisor and guard.

  “We promised Lady Howell worthy opponents. Would be rude to disappoint her, wouldn’t it, Halrik?”