A faint scent of floor wax and stale sweat hung in the air, carried on the steady hiss of the automated ventilation units overhead.
Morgan lowered his training sword, the practice weapon feeling remarkably light against his palm compared to the heavy, silent weight of the blade he carried outside these walls.
"Well played," he said.
Lucian let out a measured breath through his nose, his dark eyes steady as he adjusted his grip on the hilt.
"Your defence is good."
"Thank you."
"Your counterattack was late."
Morgan offered a slight shrug, rolling his shoulder to ease the stiffness there.
"I haven't trained in a while."
"Perhaps."
There was a quiet skepticism in Lucian's tone, an underlying analytical weight that suggested he wasn't entirely convinced by the excuse.
Lucian had always possessed an uncanny patience, but the weeks following the Dark Maestro incident had honed that stillness into something sharper.
He missed nothing.
