Chapter 29: The Fault Line
The training field was a kill zone.
Not in the literal sense—though Elric Marrow seemed determined to change that. It was barely dawn, yet the air already stank of sweat, iron, and churned-up soil. Mist clung low to the ground, curling around boots and blunted blades. No birds. No wind. Just the sound of ten simultaneous sparring matches and the occasional grunt of pain.
Leon exhaled through clenched teeth and reset his footing.
He and Fena had been locked in a mock bout for five minutes straight, with no pause. That was the rule today: no resets, no corrections, no interruptions. Fight until one of you dropped or the bell rang.
She lunged low, trying to get under his guard. He pivoted, redirected, and clipped her shoulder. Not a clean hit, but enough to make her curse and backpedal.
They circled. Sweat dripped into Leon’s eyes. His calves burned from the constant shifting.
"You’re getting faster," she said.
"You’re getting predictable."
She grinned. Then came at him again.
Elric stalked the rows like a warden in a prison yard, barking observations, critiques, and the occasional insult. Rellan was two lines down, partnered with a long-legged duelist from the eastern dominion. Neither held back. Sparks flew with every clash.
Leon barely registered them. His world had shrunk to Fena’s blade, the heat rising in his spine, and the rhythm of threat and answer.