The training hall quieted. Ino, still sweating from his bout with Juan, leaned against the wall. Now it was Lucien's turn to step into the sparring ring.
His opponent: Matteo.
Lucien drew the two wooden daggers tossed earlier, spinning them in his palms with hunter's ease. Matteo, instead of taking a blade, reached for the long, slender training bow set against the rack. He strung it with a cord, slipped a bundle of blunted wooden arrows over his shoulder, and gave a nod.
Lucien's mask hid his grin.
"Begin!" Juan barked.
Matteo moved first. His stance widened, and in a single breath he fired three arrows in rapid succession—thunk-thunk-thunk!—each aimed not at Lucien's chest but his wrists and forearms. Lucien barely deflected the first, the second grazed his sleeve, and the third knocked one dagger straight from his grip.
Lucien narrowed his eyes. Precise. Calculated.
He dashed forward, boots pounding against the wooden floor. Daggers blurred in his hands, striking in arcs meant to overwhelm. Matteo sidestepped, spinning, his bow snapping out like a staff to parry the strikes. Each impact rang out sharp and fast—wood clashing against wood.
Then came another volley—point-blank, Matteo snapping off two arrows from the hip, one for Lucien's knee, another for his throat. Lucien twisted, dagger flashing, slicing both shafts in mid-air. Splinters fell around them like sparks.
"Not bad," Matteo muttered.
Lucien pressed harder, going for dominance—his style, always total, always suffocating. He lunged in, dagger to Matteo's ribs—only for the archer to vault backward, loosing a final storm.
Four arrows. One after another.
Lucien blocked two, ducked the third—then the last arrow smacked his remaining dagger clean from his hand. It clattered to the floor, sliding out of reach.
Silence.
Lucien froze, chest heaving, his empty hands hanging at his sides. Matteo lowered his bow, sweat dripping down his brow, but his aim never wavering until Lucien raised his palms.
Then, finally, Matteo grinned.
"That's a win."
Lucien exhaled, then chuckled behind the mask. "A good fight. You've earned my respect."
They clasped hands, firm and unflinching. The tension dissolved into camaraderie.
The four hunters settled down on the edge of the ring, chests still rising and falling. Juan sprawled out with his sabre across his lap, Ino twirling his thin blade idly, Matteo wiping down his bow.
Lucien leaned forward. "Maybe it's time we share something real. Matteo, you showed me your strength. Juan…" His amber eyes flicked over. "Why don't you tell us about … everything?"
The grin on Juan's face faltered. For a long moment, he stared down at the sabre in his hands, the polished steel catching the torchlight. His fingers tightened around the hilt.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, heavy with weight.
"My father's name was Duarte Barbosa…"