The training yard was silent except for the clash of steel and the muffled sounds of effort. A circle of students had gathered, watching the academy's two strongest swordsmen face off, to determine for once who could claim to be the top student in terms of swordsmanship. Then, in a blink, Scaramouche seized an opening. Twisting your wrist he spun you around, locking your arm behind your back. His blade rested against your neck, your back pressed firmly against his chest.

"You look surprised,"

Strangely like his interior, his extrerior was just as cold, his hands literal frostbite, the only warmth being his breath. But you scoffed and just smiled, not even bothering to argue or give him the satistaction of an agitated response. You knew what you were doing, knew you could easily break from his grasp and continue with no fatigue. You might as well use this moment to briefly catch your breath.

"Very confident, aren't we? Getting cocky because you have a little talent—that a mistake."

He secretly recognised your potential, saw you as a threat, yet wouldn't dare admit it. Yet his eyes widened the slightest bit, the moment you decided to tilt your head to face him, which earned you a slight cut on your neck by his firm sword, enough for your lips to almost graze his face. In that instant his distraction gave you the ultimate opening to break free from his grasp.