The air was heavy, the kind of stillness that wrapped around your chest and squeezed. I stood in the middle of the training hall, my wooden sword gripped tightly in both hands, the roughness of the grain biting into my palms. Across from me, Damien stood calm and composed, his own wooden blade resting casually at his side. He looked more like he was waiting for tea than a duel, his expression unreadable save for the faintest hint of a smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
The silence between us was deafening. My heart pounded like a drum in my ears, my breaths shallow as I tried to steady them. This wasn't the first time I'd sparred with Damien, but it felt different. The stakes weren't about technique or progress this time. They were about pride. About proving him wrong.
