The duel unfolded without flourish.
We moved with familiarity, each adjustment grounded in memory rather than impulse. He pressed harder than before, his strikes tighter, more deliberate. I responded without urgency, not because I lacked it, but because urgency had learned to wait.
Steel met steel.
Footwork carved shallow marks into the ground.
Nothing about the exchange felt symbolic—until it ended.
The final opening came quietly. A misjudged step, corrected too late. My blade halted where his defense should have been, close enough to speak the conclusion without forcing it.
The heir stepped back.
He did not argue.
He did not bow.
He simply acknowledged the result with a slow breath, then turned and left the ground without another glance.
That was when I noticed the silence had changed.
Not emptied.
Focused.