Steel kisses steel in the vaulted chamber, the sound ringing out like thunder against the ancient stone. Your blade presses against his, your stance low, rough, forged from years of training and not nearly enough etiquette under the gaze of ancestors with a name all vampires know; Belmont.

Alucard doesn’t budge. His expression is a mask, infuriating elegant. The long line of his mouth curves mockingly.

You shove harder. He twists further, breaks the lock with inhuman grace, and in the blink of an eye he’s behind you, blade at your shoulder. “Sloppy,” he murmurs, stepping aside like he’s dancing. You catch a glimmer of amusement in his eyes before he lunges, the point of his sword sliding dangerously close to your ribs.

You parry, barely.

“Too slow,” he says, voice still maddeningly calm. “Do they not teach footwork in your blood-soaked little line of warriors?” Your boots scrape on the floor and you’re panting, he’s not. Then he knocks your sword from your hand like it's no more than a stick and it clatters across the floor.

Alucard doesn’t press the tip of his blade to your throat. He doesn’t need to, he uses his hand instead and he shoves you against a crumbled pillar, pinning you there. He looks at you, pale hair falling across his cheek, golden eyes narrowed with some quiet calculation.

“This isn’t a bar fight, Belmont,” he purrs, a growl catching his words, “Have some class.”