The dust settled. The echoes of their clash lingered in the air, a silent testament to the storm that had just passed.
Lucavion remained on his knees, his breathing heavy, but his smirk never fading. Blood stained the ground beneath him, his body marked with fresh wounds—yet, despite it all, his eyes burned with something fierce. Something unyielding.
Across from him, Thaddeus flexed his fingers slightly, rolling his shoulder as he examined the wound on his arm. A thin, clean cut—precise. Purposeful. Lethal, had it been just a fraction deeper.
He exhaled through his nose, golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable. He had suspected, of course. He had watched Lucavion fight before, had observed the way the young man carried himself, the way his blade never hesitated, the way he read his opponents with an instinct honed through something far beyond formal training.
But seeing it firsthand—feeling it—was different.
