The mansion courtyard had mostly dried after last night's rain, though a few stones were still wet.
Wooden practice swords were scattered across the ground, tossed without care.
Cadre never bothered putting them away properly.
She grabbed two and handed one to Sonder.
Sonder tested the weight. Light. The leather grip was worn smooth.
They faced each other and took their stances.
Cadre moved first, light on her feet. Her footwork was sharp—clean with fast pivots.
Sonder blocked the opening strike. Her style was almost the opposite, tighter and more controlled.
Cadre feinted left and swept right. Sonder saw it coming. Block. Parry. Step back.
"You're better than you said," Cadre said, adjusting her grip.
"Thanks," Sonder said. "You're good too."
"I know," Cadre grinned. "People keep telling me."
They circled around each other.
This time Sonder struck first—quick, precise.
Cadre barely blocked and stumbled back, laughing.
"I thought mages hated swords," she said.
"Maybe some do," Sonder replied. "I don't. I just don't use them often. I mostly use magic. Sometimes a dagger."
Cadre tilted her head. "Is that part of the mage thing? That confidence? Like the sword in your chest? When Grandfather told me not to worry about it, I figured it was just... wizard stuff."
"Yes, for that part. The confidence? I'm not sure. The mages I've met were powerful enough that they didn't need weapons."
"What about your father?" Cadre asked. "He's a powerful wizard, right? Does he use one?"
"I've seen him use a sword a few times. But mostly, he prefers a staff."
Cadre spun her sword idly. "I like blades better. Staves feel too ceremonial. Like a walking stick that shoots lightning."
"Maybe. But it's not like the staff that makes the mage."
Cadre shrugged and reset her stance. "Sure. But it is the sword that makes the swordswoman."
She struck again—faster, harder angles.
But Sonder was seemingly invincible. Her style was strange too—foreign... and it was hard to counter.
Sonder moved cleanly and efficiently. Blocking with ease. Footwork soft. She didn't push for any advantage or opportunity—she didn't need to.
Cadre lunged again—but far too wide.
Sonder spun out of the way and tapped Cadre's shoulder with the tip of her practice sword.
They reset.
This time Cadre came in low, then pivoted up, aiming a strike toward Sonder's side—but again, Sonder sidestepped and countered, tapping her on the ribs.
Cadre's jaw tensed.
"You okay?" Sonder asked, catching the flicker of frustration.
"Yeah. Just figuring you out."
But Cadre's form was slipping. Her swing is looser, her pacing off. She pushed harder, faster—trying to crack Sonder's calm. It didn't work. Sonder stayed fluid. Precise. Unnaturally calm.
So Cadre changed tactics.
She feigned a stumble—pretending to slip on one of the wet stones. As she fell, she reached out with her free hand and grabbed Sonder's wrist.
Caught off-guard, Sonder's balance broke. In the next breath, Cadre drove her shoulder forward, knocking her back and down, landing hard enough to knock a breath out.
Cadre immediately sprang to her feet and pointed her sword down. "Point."
Sonder groaned from the ground. "You tripped me."
"It was legal," Cadre said quickly. "Sort of."
Sonder sat up slowly, brushing off her sleeve. "You pretended to fall."
"I did fall. Strategically."
Sonder gave her a long look, then stood. "You're not a very honest fighter."
"I'm an effective one."