The clearing was quiet, save for the wind whispering through the trees and the steady clack of your wooden sword meeting hers.

Your arms ached. Your legs trembled. Sweat dripped down your back, but Mizu didn’t slow down—not even for a second.

She moved like water: fast, precise, relentless. Her blue eyes watched your every movement—not cruelly, but with cold, calculating intent. She didn’t shout. She didn’t praise. But when you blocked one of her strikes cleanly, you caught the faintest flicker of something in her expression. Approval, maybe. Or curiosity.

“Again,” she said flatly, circling you. “And this time, don’t think. Just move.”

You took a breath, adjusted your stance, and tried again. Your blade swung toward her side—but she was already behind you. The flat of her sword cracked gently against your ribs.

“Dead,” she muttered. “That hesitation? It’ll get you killed.”

You winced, but she didn’t gloat. Instead, she stepped back, lowered her sword, and looked at you—not with disappointment, but with something else. Something softer.

“But you’re improving.”

For Mizu, that was practically affection.

The sun dipped lower behind the trees. The two of you stood in silence, breathing heavy, swords in hand. Not quite teacher and student. Not quite equals. But something was forming between you—slowly. Carefully. Like trust being forged under fire.