Morning sunlight poured through the windows, casting warm, golden rays across Leonel's room. He stirred, blinking away the haze of sleep as the familiar scent of dew-filled air drifted through the half-open window. The sunlight danced lazily across the wooden floor, tracing patterns that seemed to move with the breeze.
Leonel had always been an early riser. Ever since he was five, the discipline of waking before the sun had become second nature. At first, it was expectation—the rigorous demands of House Graythorn's traditions—but somewhere along the line, it became his choice, his own quiet ritual.
With a soft exhale, Leonel swung his legs off the bed and stretched. The movement was fluid, practiced. His muscles still carried the dull ache from yesterday's fight, but it was the kind of soreness he relished—proof of effort, a reminder of progress.
Stepping out into his private training yard, the morning chill bit at his skin, invigorating him. Leonel's bare feet met the cool, damp earth, grounding him as he gripped his sword. He began his morning drills, each motion smooth and deliberate, like the passing of time itself. The blade cut through the lingering mist, glinting faintly as streaks of silver followed its path.
His breath came steady and measured as he worked through the techniques he'd practiced countless times—slashes, counters, feints—each movement carving deeper understanding into his body. Today, though, something was different. He could feel it. The edge of his technique, the flow of his sword, felt sharper, more refined.
Leonel paused, lowering his blade. He looked at the sword, thoughtful.
"It seems like my techniques are a bit sharper today," he muttered, his voice soft against the quiet. "Is it because of yesterday's duel?"
The duel had been simple, nothing life-threatening, yet the act of facing someone in true combat—even at a controlled level—had a way of revealing flaws you hadn't seen before.
He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Maybe I'll be able to push myself even further today. I'm actually looking forward to it."
Resting his sword across his knees, Leonel sat on a nearby bench, his gaze drifting upward. The sky was pale blue, soft and new, the sun just beginning its climb. He often felt different on mornings like this—as if there was something inside him, some intangible quality that set him apart. It wasn't pride, but a quiet understanding of himself.
"Since when did I start feeling this way?" he wondered aloud. It wasn't something he could explain to others, not even his family. But he felt it in his bones: the way swordsmanship came to him with an ease it shouldn't. How he could instinctively grasp things it took others years to understand.
Leonel turned the blade in his hands, watching the light trace its edge. "The Blackwind Slash…" he murmured, recalling the third form of the Graythorn technique. "No one my age has mastered it, but…" He trailed off, frowning. He'd reached proficiency, sure, but that wasn't enough. Not for him.
"To truly master it, I need something more than practice. Maybe a real life-and-death experience…" His voice dropped at the thought, a shadow crossing his face before he brushed it aside. This competition won't push me that far, he admitted to himself, though the challenge it offered still held value.
He rose, sheathing his sword with a clean motion. The air felt warmer now, the day fully awake. He turned back toward the chambers, sweat clinging to his brow, his body humming with energy.
By the time Leonel emerged from his bathing chamber, his skin flushed from the warm water, Mariella was already there. Her presence was as predictable as the sunrise. She stood near the table, setting down a breakfast tray with her usual care.
"Good morning, young master," she greeted, her voice rich with affection.
Leonel smiled faintly, drying his hair with a cloth. "You're early today."
Mariella's sharp gaze softened as she looked him over. "Someone has to make sure you don't train yourself into the ground. You shouldn't push so hard first thing in the morning."
"It's routine," Leonel replied with an easy shrug. "I can't help it."
"Routine or not," Mariella countered, folding her arms, "you still need to take care of yourself." She gestured to the food: warm eggs, soft bread, and slices of fresh fruit, the steam rising invitingly. "There's more to life than swinging that sword around."
Leonel chuckled softly, taking a seat. "Thank you for worrying, Mariella. I mean it."
She huffed, though the corners of her mouth twitched into a smile. "Hmph. Don't think flattery will get you out of finishing that plate."
Leonel laughed at her familiar tone. It was moments like this that reminded him there were people in his life who cared for him—not as a Graythorn or as a swordsman, but as Leonel.
After breakfast, Leonel headed for Selene's chambers, expecting to escort his youngest sister to the arena. He found her room empty, though, much to his surprise.
"She went out with the maid earlier," an attendant informed him. "She was quite insistent."
Leonel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What could she possibly be up to this early?"
The question lingered as he made his way to the arena alone. The growing hum of the crowd greeted him, a reminder of the day's events. Fighters moved about the waiting area, some stretching, others lost in quiet focus.
It wasn't long before Leonel spotted familiar faces. Thaddeus Graythorn grinned when he saw him, striding over with his usual confidence.
"Leonel! You were impressive yesterday," Thaddeus said, clapping him on the shoulder. "That display shut Garic up real quick."
Leonel smiled faintly. "Thanks."
Thaddeus' grin dimmed as he tilted his head, studying him. "You were a little intense back there, though. Are you alright?"
Leonel paused, surprised by the question, then nodded. "I'm fine, really. Don't worry about me."
Thaddeus sighed but relented. "If you say so. Just remember, we're family. You can talk to me anytime, alright?"
Leonel's chest warmed at the kindness in Thaddeus' tone. "I will. Thanks, Thaddeus."
Before he could reply further, Liora Moonshadow approached with a playful smile. "You're popular today, Leonel."
Leonel smirked. "Liora. Lucia."
Lucia Blackthorn, who joined quietly, offered a respectful nod. "Yesterday's duel was something to behold."
Liora's silver hair glinted as she added, "You were holding back, though. We could tell."
Leonel laughed softly. "I could say the same about you two."
Lucia's faint smile turned sharper. "Perhaps we'll test that soon."
Before anyone could respond, a cheerful voice cut through the air.
"Let's start the first match!" Selene Graythorn beamed from the officiator's platform, waving her arms wildly.
Leonel groaned softly. "Of course she's up there."
The crowd erupted into cheers as Lucia Blackthorn and Viktor Darkblade stepped into the arena, both fighters radiating focus.
Lucia stood poised in the center of the arena, her blade held steady at her side. The morning sun kissed its polished steel, casting streaks of light across the stone floor. She was calm—a stillness that exuded quiet confidence. Across from her, Viktor Darkblade grinned faintly, his sword already raised in an easy, fluid grip.
"Still as stone, I see," Viktor teased, his voice light but his gaze sharp. "I hope you brought more than just patience today."
Lucia smirked, her gray eyes steady. "Don't worry. You'll see soon enough."
The referee's hand dropped.
Viktor surged forward. His movements were swift and natural, like a shadow rolling across the ground. His sword whistled through the air in a diagonal slash, fast and clean. But Lucia was ready. Her feet shifted subtly, and she sidestepped with the grace of a dancer, her blade flicking up to meet his.
CLANG!
The sound of steel meeting steel echoed through the arena. The crowd leaned in, breaths collectively held. Lucia's strike deflected Viktor's attack, redirecting the momentum as she spun lightly on her heel to face him again.
"Not bad," Viktor muttered, pivoting back. "But you're being cautious."
Lucia's lips curled faintly. "Isn't that how you fight, too?"
Viktor chuckled. "Touché."
Without warning, he darted in again, this time chaining strikes together. High, low, diagonal—each slash flowed seamlessly into the next, forcing Lucia to respond. Her blade snapped up to block a strike aimed at her shoulder, then slid down to parry another at her hip. The rhythm of the clash rang like music.
"You're predictable, Viktor," Lucia said between strikes, her voice even. She stepped back, absorbing his aggression without giving an inch.
Viktor grinned as their blades locked. "Predictable? Or are you just too good at reading me?"