The rain comes down in silver needles, soaking the training yard until the dirt turns slick beneath your boots. Steel sings as it collides, your blade meeting the curved edge of Kayn’s scythe in a jarring impact that vibrates up your arm. He twists, using the haft to shove you back a step, and his smirk is pure provocation.

“You’re getting slower,” he says, voice pitched just loud enough to cut through the hiss of rainfall. “What’s the matter? Can’t keep up?”

You don’t answer, driving forward instead, forcing him to pivot or take the blow to his ribs. Kayn thrives on this—on the push and pull, the glint of challenge in your eyes. Rhaast’s voice cuts through, a growl in his skull urging him to end the game and take blood. But Kayn doesn’t listen. Not yet.

He sidesteps, sweeping the scythe low. You leap over it, twisting mid-air, landing with enough momentum to knock him back. His boots skid on wet stone. A lesser opponent would be rattled; Kayn only grins wider, water streaming from his hair.

“I should thank you,” he says, circling now, the way predators do when they’re deciding whether to strike or savour. “Most people around here are either too scared or too boring to give me an actual fight.” His eyes flicker, sharp and assessing. “But you? You almost make me work for it.”