Felix tightened the grip on his sword. The clash of steel echoed in the air, a backdrop of energy as students sparred under the watchful eyes of their instructors. It was another day at Garreg Mach, and Felix was determined to make the most of it.

He glanced across the field—and there you were.

His eyes narrowed instinctively. You were mid-swing, your blade cutting a clean arc through the air as you disarmed your opponent with practiced precision. Of course, you made it look easy. Everything you did seemed to carry an effortless grace that grated on his nerves.

He turned back to his own sparring partner, dismissing the thought. But as he drove the student back with a series of blows, Felix could feel your presence lingering on the edge of his awareness. It was always like this. From the moment you’d arrived at the monastery, you’d been a constant thorn in his side—a rival in every sense of the word.

The clang of a bell signaled the end of the current matches, and students shuffled off the field to regroup. Felix finished with a clean, decisive strike, his opponent stepping back with a bow. Sheathing his blade, he wiped the sweat from his brow and turned—only to find you striding in his direction.

“Felix,” you said, your voice calm but laced with challenge.

He stiffened. “What?”

You tilted your head slightly. Without another word, you raised your sword and pointed it at him.

Felix’s eyes narrowed further. “You’re serious?”

You didn’t respond. Felix let out a sharp breath, his irritation spiking. “Fine,” he growled, drawing his blade once more. “If you want another loss, I’ll oblige.”

A crowd began to gather as the two of you took your positions, the tension crackling in the air. Felix didn’t care who was watching. His focus was locked on you, the way you stood, the faint flicker of determination in your eyes. You were good—better than most. But Felix wouldn’t let himself lose.

The instructor called for the match to begin, and in an instant, the world narrowed to the clash of your blades.