Mikaia overcommitted.
A flourish lingered. A step carried her just a breath too far. Her knives sang as they left her hands — bright, eager things.
They did not return.
Steel struck stone and broke apart, fragments skittering uselessly across the ground.
"I—" Her breath hitched, panic surfacing too late. "Wait—!"
Darin answered with his foot.
The kick was clean. No wind-up. No anger. It struck her center and erased her from the fight before fear could finish forming. Mikaia folded and vanished from the stage.
Tanoa caught her on instinct, boots grinding as he absorbed her weight. He lowered her carefully.
"She's out," he said.
Darin didn't reply.
He didn't even look at her after.
Efficient. Instructional. As if removing her had been a correction, not a punishment.
Tanoa stepped forward beside me, shoulders squared, breath steady.
"We take the weapon," he said low.
I rolled my shoulder, my kris settling into my grip like a familiar note returning to key.
"I know."
We advanced together.
Darin adjusted immediately — not retreating, not attacking. Just shifting. A half-step here, a turn of the shoulder there. Our angles bent without us realizing how.
Like we were being arranged.
His stance caught me off-guard.
Relaxed. Open. Weight centered, hands loose — inviting mistakes.
Wood scraped against wood.
I was smaller then, the practice blade awkward in my grip.
"Brother," I'd said, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. "Teach me."
Darin had laughed — warm, unguarded.
"Alright. Just a few moves."
I beat him that day.
Not cleanly. Not elegantly. My body moved before my thoughts could stop it. When I looked up, Darin was staring at me.
Then he laughed harder.
"Incredible!"
"My little brother's a genius!"
The memory lingered, bright and uncomplicated.
Admiration. Pride. No shadows yet.
Back in the present, Darin shifted again — and the lesson resumed.
The opening came.
Subtle. Polite.
I took it.
Breath aligned. Stance snapped into place. Intent sharpened to a single merciless line. The First Art ignited through me and my blade struck true.
The impact thundered.
Darin's sword tore free, spinning end over end before skidding across the stone. Metal screamed, then fell silent.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
I didn't waste it.
I attacked.
Not cautiously. Not probing.
I gave him everything.
Steel screamed as our blades met, then met again — too fast to count, too clean to separate. Each strike flowed into the next, perfect arcs chained without pause, my body moving faster than thought could interfere.
This was what I knew.
This was how fights ended.
Darin's sword was everywhere — catching, deflecting, sliding — never resisting, never yielding. The impacts rang sharp enough to blur into a single continuous sound, like the world itself protesting.
I pushed harder.
Faster.
Stronger.
My arms burned. My breath shortened. I didn't stop.
I had never needed to.
And then — nothing changed.
No opening.
No crack.
No hesitation.
It was like striking a surface that absorbed everything and returned nothing.
Mid-swing, the thought surfaced — thin, dangerous.
Why isn't this working?
That was when his blade slipped inside my pattern.
Not against it.
Between it.
The clash broke.
I stumbled back a step, breath ragged, surprise flashing before I could kill it.
Darin looked at me — really looked — calm as ever.
"Be careful," he said.
The word landed heavier than the blade.
Tanoa roared and charged.
Darin let the sword go.
No hesitation. No regret.
He met Tanoa empty-handed.
Wrists turned. Elbows folded. Hips shifted. Strength crashed into him and was redirected, returned with brutal economy.
"You have a good body," Darin said calmly. "But no technique."
"Shut up!" Tanoa snarled.
One movement.
Tanoa collapsed.
The sound echoed — dull, final.
I moved alone now.
Efficient. Direct.
I landed something real.
Darin stepped forward — deliberately.
"You're still ahead," I said, breath tight.
"You're dangerous now," he replied.
No sentiment. Just fact.
Then he was inside my space.
A stone snapped up from the ground — kicked into my swing.
Pain exploded through my fingers. My kris spun away, flashing once before clattering out of reach.
The follow-up came instantly.
Neither of us had our weapon now.
Only one of us was ready.
I hit the ground hard, vision swimming.
I laughed.
"Well," I muttered, tasting blood, "this is officially tragic."
I remembered the corridor outside his room.
Light under the door. Voices beyond it — never faces, never eyes.
"Don't waste your brother's time."
"Why can't you be like him?"
"You'll infect him."
I hadn't cried.
I'd decided.
It was easier not to look.
Knowing doesn't mean facing.
The air rotted.
Not shifted — spoiled.
It crawled across my skin, sour and wrong. Darin felt it too; I saw it in the way his stance tightened, instinct screaming before thought could follow.
Kael stood.
Too fast.
Too wrong.
His eyes weren't focused. They weren't empty either. They were elsewhere.
"It's meaningless…" he said.
Not to us.
To everything.
My breath caught.
"…What," I whispered, "did you just wake up?"
Darin's flame flickered.
And for the first time—
My brother did not smile.