The training ground fell silent after her words.
All eyes were now on the center of the packed dirt.
On the noble.
And on Rowan.
The man in polished armor stepped into the field with the natural confidence of someone who had done this many times before. Every piece of steel seemed perfectly fitted to his body — the breastplate resting smoothly across his shoulders, the rivets shining in the morning light.
He drew his sword with a clean motion.
The sound of steel sliding free echoed across the field.
A few soldiers murmured quietly.
Rowan still held the training sword he had taken from the rack.
Reinforced wood.
Heavy.
Not elegant.
But effective.
The noble looked at Rowan's weapon and let out a small smile.
— A training sword.
He spun the steel blade once in his hand.
— I hope you know how to use it.
Some soldiers laughed.
Rowan didn't respond.
He only shifted his stance slightly.
Left foot forward.
Sword low.
The noble studied that and frowned faintly.
— You fight like that?
Rowan answered calmly.
— Sometimes.
The noble exhaled through his nose.
— Try not to die too quickly.
More laughter from the soldiers.
She didn't laugh.
She simply watched.
Arms crossed.
Attentive.
— Begin, — she said.
The noble didn't wait another second.
He advanced.
The first strike came fast.
A clean thrust aimed directly at Rowan's chest.
Rowan stepped aside.
Not with elegance.
Just out of the line of attack.
The steel passed close enough to brush his shoulder.
The noble turned immediately and attacked again.
A lateral cut.
Rowan raised the training sword.
CLACK.
Wood against steel.
The impact vibrated up Rowan's arm.
He stepped back.
Another strike came.
Faster now.
The noble pressed forward.
Precise cuts, well-trained, each motion flowing into the next like part of a dance practiced many times before.
Rowan kept retreating.
Blocking.
Dodging.
Never attacking.
The soldiers began murmuring.
— He's just running.
— He won't last long.
— Look at his stance…
— He doesn't even know how to fight.
The noble heard them.
And smiled.
Another attack.
Faster.
Rowan blocked.
Stepped back.
Dodged another strike that passed dangerously close to his head.
The steel blade sliced through a few strands of his hair.
The noble advanced again.
— Is that all?
Rowan didn't answer.
He was watching.
Not the sword.
The man's feet.
The weight of the armor.
The rhythm.
Another strike came.
Rowan blocked.
Stepped back.
The mud beneath their feet was beginning to loosen.
The noble attacked again.
A powerful overhead strike.
Rowan shifted to the side.
The blade sank partially into the dirt.
For only an instant.
But it was enough.
Rowan moved.
He didn't attack with the sword.
Instead he stepped forward quickly and drove his shoulder into the noble's chest.
The man hadn't expected it.
The weight of the armor and the mud beneath his feet did the rest.
His balance broke.
His foot slipped.
And in the next second he fell flat on his back into the dirt.
THUD.
The entire field fell silent.
The noble's sword landed a few inches beside his hand.
Rowan immediately stepped back twice.
Sword still raised.
Breathing controlled.
The noble stared at the sky for a second.
In disbelief.
Then slowly turned his head toward Rowan.
His eyes burned with anger.
Some soldiers began to laugh.
Quiet at first.
Then louder.
The man stood up quickly.
Mud now stained parts of his polished armor.
He grabbed his sword again.
— Again, — he said, his voice hard.
Rowan didn't respond.
Before anything could happen—
— Enough.
The word cut through the field.
She stepped forward.
Silence returned instantly.
The noble still breathed heavily.
Rowan remained still.
She looked first at the noble.
Then at Rowan.
— Interesting.
She tilted her head slightly.
— You fight like a peasant.
Rowan answered without hesitation.
— Peasants die if they make mistakes.
A small smile returned to her face.
Behind them, on the nearby hill…
Vaerith had lifted his head again.
The dragon was watching the field.
And Rowan had the strange feeling the creature had witnessed every second of the fight.
The man took a few seconds to stand fully.
The armor that had been immaculate now had dust in the joints and a streak of mud across the chest. He brushed the metal as if that were the worst part of the defeat.
— That was a trick, — he said, looking at Rowan with contempt.
Rowan still breathed heavily from the fight. His sword hung low in his hand.
— It was a fight.
The noble let out a short, irritated laugh.
— You kept running like a rat waiting—
— Enough.
The word came calm.
But firm.
Everyone fell silent again.
She took a few steps through the training circle, glancing briefly at the defeated man.
— If you fall again, — she said, — perhaps I'll have someone hold your sword for you as well.
Some soldiers laughed quietly.
The noble clenched his jaw but said nothing.
She then turned her gaze to Rowan.
She studied him for several seconds.
As if trying to understand something.
— You didn't try to beat him.
Rowan frowned slightly.
— Didn't I?
She gestured toward the ground.
— You waited.
Rowan shrugged.
— He was in a hurry.
A small smile appeared at the corner of her mouth.
— Yes.
She began walking across the training ground again.
After a few steps she noticed Rowan still standing there.
— Are you going to stay there?
Rowan started walking after her.
Some soldiers followed them with their eyes, still clearly unsettled.
After a few seconds, Rowan spoke.
— Since I'm… your prisoner.
She raised an eyebrow slightly.
— Or your pet, — he added.
Some nearby soldiers held back laughter.
— Perhaps I should know the name of my owner.
She stopped.
Turned slowly to face him.
Her eyes remained on him for several seconds.
Long enough to make the entire field feel quieter.
— Now you ask.
Rowan sighed faintly.
— I was busy trying not to die.
That drew a few discreet smiles from around the field.
She studied his face a moment longer.
Then said:
— Lyra.
The name came simple.
Without ceremony.
Rowan nodded slightly.
— Rowan.
— I know.
She glanced at the sword still in his hand.
Then she drew her own blade from the sheath with a smooth, natural motion.
Steel flashed in the pale morning light.
She pointed the sword toward him.
— Come.
Rowan looked at the blade.
Then at her.
— You're going to fight me?
She tilted her head slightly.
— Disappointed?
Some soldiers began gathering again, forming a wider circle.
Rowan took a slow breath and raised the sword again.
Lyra spun the blade lightly between her fingers, relaxed.
— Let's see, — she said, — if you only knock down arrogant nobles…
Her smile appeared again.
Small.
Dangerous.
— Or if you actually know how to fight.