Gabriel
I knew it was a mistake.
Even before I hit the ground, before my back slammed hard and the impact drove the air from my lungs—I knew it.
I had underestimated him.
Isaac was still standing in the same spot, his sword loosely held in his right hand.
He had barely moved.
And yet, I was on the ground, my chest burning with pain, my pride shattered into pieces.
Raphael
"Get up."
His voice was calm. No mockery. No anger. Just a statement.
Gabriel growled, forcing himself to his feet. I could see that every fiber of his being wanted to fight.
But he knew, just as I did—it wouldn't matter.
"You want me to train you?" Isaac twirled his sword in his hand like it was nothing more than a toy. "Then prove you deserve it."
Michael stepped forward. "How?"
Isaac pointed his blade at his shoulder. "Hit me."
Raphael grinned. "Seriously?"
"You have three minutes."
Michael
Three minutes.
It sounded simple. But I knew it wasn't.
Isaac stood there, relaxed, almost bored. But I had seen enough fights to know what that meant.
He was waiting.
Not for our attacks—but for our mistakes.
Gabriel was the first to strike. Of course he was.
He rushed forward, his sword flashing, the gold-silver blade aiming straight for Isaac's shoulder.
A direct strike. A good strategy against a weaker opponent.
But Isaac was no weaker opponent.
Gabriel
My sword sliced through air.
Only air.
Isaac hadn't even moved—just shifted his weight, a mere fraction of an inch to the side, and my strike hit nothing.
My balance was off. And in that moment, his elbow crashed into my stomach.
I coughed, stumbling back.
"Too direct," Isaac said. "You rely on brute force, but you don't think. Any vampire with a year of experience would tear you apart."
I growled. "Then I'll think."
He chuckled. "Do that."
Raphael
My lance shot toward him.
I wasn't like Gabriel—I didn't fight head-on. I used angles, pressure points, unpredictability.
Or so I thought.
Isaac let my lance glide off his blade, turned toward me—and kicked me in the knee.
It wasn't a hard hit. Just a precise one.
And it was enough to throw me off balance.
"Too impulsive," he said. "You don't fight with strategy. You fight with anger. And anger makes you predictable."
I gritted my teeth.
He was right.
And I hated it.
Michael
We had only one minute left.
Gabriel was too direct. Raphael was too impulsive.
And me?
I was too cautious.
I hesitated. I analyzed too much. I looked for the perfect moment—and never found it.
But now, we had no time left.
So I had to make a mistake to win.
Gabriel
Michael moved.
But not to attack.
He stepped back.
"Raphael."
My brother reacted instantly, instinctively understanding.
He lunged forward as if he were attacking again—but it was just a feint.
Isaac dodged. Right where Michael wanted him to.
And then he was there.
His short sword cut through the air—brushing against Isaac's coat.
Nothing more.
But enough.
Isaac Crowe
I stopped moving.
Michael was breathing hard. Gabriel straightened up. Raphael grinned despite the pain.
I looked at my coat. The fabric was slightly cut.
No blood. No wound.
But they had touched me.
I lowered my blade.
Then I nodded slowly.
"Not bad."
The brothers looked at me as if they hadn't expected to hear that.
"Not good," I slung my sword over my shoulder, "but not bad."
I turned away.
"Come back tomorrow. Maybe then you'll be ready."
And then I walked away.