The training courtyard of the Imperial Palace was thick with mist, kissed by the pale amber light of dawn. The air smelled of steel, sweat, and sharp anticipation.
Two men moved like twin storms in the center of the ring.
Blades flashed. Boots struck stone. Every swing could've drawn blood if either of them had the intent to kill.
"You know," Max called from where he lounged on a carved stone bench, "I've seen wars that were less intense than this."
No one responded. They were all too busy watching.
Damian and Charles were evenly matched now, at least in speed and precision. One moved with the ruthless discipline of a man who'd been trained for power since birth. The other, with the raw, whipcrack energy of someone who refused to lose. Both had wards that prevented them from using magic during the battle.
Charles darted forward again, feinting low, then striking high. Damian blocked him by the hilt; their blades locked, eyes clashing just as hard.
