Vaelin charged, boots pounding over blood-slick stone, sword gleaming with his aura. Ash and smoke swirled around him as the firelight danced off his armor. His gaze locked on the two figures ahead—one wiping his blades with unsettling calmness, the other grinning like a devil beneath the ember-lit sky.
Ivan didn't look up at first. He spoke quietly, like commenting on the weather.
"I'll handle this one," he said, sheathing one dagger with a soft click. "You take the others."
Abaddon arched a brow. "Normally, I'm not one to take suggestions from just anyone," he mused, stretching lazily, wings rustling. "But you abuse me, Ivan. So… I'll humor you."
"Shut up," Ivan said coldly.
Abaddon laughed, loud and mischievous, and with a flap of his wings, leapt into the air, vanishing into the haze above.
Vaelin met Ivan with a roar, sword arcing in a clean, brutal stroke.
Steel clashed—sparks flew in a massive BOOM.
… …
The training field of the barracks of the Imperial capital was a sprawl of polished quartz and wood, ringed by weathered racks of swords, spears, and shields, their metal glinting dully in the midday sun.
The air buzzed with the clang of steel and the grunts of effort, smelling of sweat, leather, and the faint tang of oiled blades.
Walls loomed on all sides, scarred from training, their cracks patched with mortar but still showing some marks. A few barrels of water stood in one corner, their surfaces rippling as knights splashed their faces, while a rack of training armor creaked under the weight of dented plates.
Overhead, the sky was a sharp blue, sliced by wisps of cloud, the sun beating down without mercy.
Emperor Arkanos stood at the courtyard's center, his toned physique stinking as always. His silver hair was tied back, wearing a simple brown tunic loose over black leather breeches, a longsword in his hand that moved like an extension of his body.
His emerald eyes flicked across the five knights circling him—young, eager, their training blades gleaming, armor clanking as they shifted, trying to find an opening.
The knights lunged as one, their blades aimed at their emperor, but Arkanos was a storm in motion, his blade a blur of silver that met each strike with precision.
He parried a thrust from the first knight, twisting his wrist to send the blade wide, and snapped, "Your grip's too tight, Coren—loosen it or you'll tire."
The knight grunted, stumbling as Arkanos sidestepped, his boot kicking up dust.
The second knight swung high. Arkanos ducked, blade flashing to tap the man's elbow. "Mind your balance, Terek. You're leaning too far."
Terek wobbled, cursing under his breath.
The third and fourth came together, swords slashing in tandem, but Arkanos spun between them, his blade ringing as it deflected both.
"Predictable, both of you. Vary your angles, or you're dead on the battlefield." He shoved one back with a shoulder, sending him sprawling into the dirt, armor scraping.
The fifth knight, bolder, roared and charged, blade arcing for Arkanos's side. The emperor stepped inside the swing, grabbing the knight's wrist and twisting, forcing him to his knees with a yelp, the sword clattering to the ground.
"Overcommitted, Rylan," Arkanos said, almost bored, releasing him with a shove.
"Think before you swing." In seconds, all five were down—bruised, panting, sprawled across the dirt, their blades scattered like fallen leaves.
The watching knights began to murmur, some chuckling, others shaking their heads, their voices spilling over the sidelines where a cluster leaned against a shield rack, wiping sweat and passing a waterskin.
"Gods, the emperor's a damn wraith with that blade," said Joren, a lanky knight with a sunburned nose. "What do we call him now? 'Silver Fang'? Cuts through men like teeth through meat."
"Nah," countered Gavyn, stocky and bearded, spitting into the dirt. "Too soft. 'Bladestorm' fits better. You saw him—spins through 'em like a bloody tornado. Those lads never had a chance."
A third knight, Mira, her braid tucked under her helm, snorted, leaning on her spear. "Bladestorm's good, but I'm sticking with 'Ghostblade.' He's there, then he ain't, and you're bleeding before you blink. Bet even Sir Tarius'd sweat facing him."
Gavyn laughed, loud and rough, drawing eyes. "Sir Tarius Valebright? Come off it, Mira. The man's got swordplay in his blood—he's the head of the Valebright clan, for gods' sake. Swordsmanship's their damn birthright. He'd match the emperor swing for swing, mark me."
Joren shook his head. "Tarius is a monster, sure, but you're dreaming. The emperor just danced through five at once without breaking a sweat. Tarius might last longer, but match him? No one's that good."
"Piss off, Joren," Gavyn snapped, crossing his arms. "Valebright's trained since he could walk—his clan's been carving men for centuries. I saw him split an armoured knight in half in one swing. He'd give the emperor a proper fight, not this… kids' play. I'm talking about the kind that redefines landscapes."
Mira grinned, jabbing Gavyn's ribs with her spear's butt. "You're just sweet on Sir Tarius 'cause he bought you ale once. The emperor's on another level. I heard a rumor that the barren forest we have outside the capital was caused by him battling with the fallen angel, and he won then—look at him now, not even breathing hard. Sir Tarius'd hold a minute, maybe two, then eat dirt like these fools."
"Minute or two?" Gavyn's face reddened. "Sir Tarius'd have him panting. Valebright's got tricks Arkanos ain't seen—feints, grips, that sky-splitter cut his clan passes down. Sword's in their veins, I tell you."
Joren smirked, folding his arms. "Veins or no, the emperor's a wall. Sir Tarius might nick him, but win? Keep dreaming, mate."
The other knights watching from the sidelines muttered, some laughing, others shaking their heads, as Arkanos stood untouched, barely winded, his sword resting lightly in his grip.
A clear voice cut through the murmurs. "Enough playing, Emperor. Let's see if I can make you sweat."
Imperial Marshal Seraphine Valebright stepped forward, her white and gold plate armor gleaming, longsword drawn, its edge catching the sun like a shard of ice.