The training hall at the Silvermoon Safehouse was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of fists meeting padded targets. Damien Laurent circled Constantine St. John with a critical eye, analyzing every movement, every shift in stance. The duel was just two days away, and there was no room for mistakes.
"Again," Damien commanded, holding up his hands for Constantine to strike.
Constantine obeyed, his fists moving in a blur as he threw a rapid combination of punches. Damien parried and blocked with practiced ease, nodding slightly at Constantine's improving technique. But there was no hint of approval in his eyes, just the expectation of more.
