"Alright," James said, wooden sword in hand. "Your turn. Let's see what you've got."
Ryan picked up his own practice blade. "You know, you say that every time. And every time, I get my ass kicked."
"Exactly. Tradition." James grinned. "Now stop complaining—" James waved for Ryan to come at him. "—And fight me."
They squared off in the center of the arena.
James didn't give him time to think. He lunged forward, sword coming in fast.
Ryan blocked—barely. The impact rattled up his arms.
"Good!" James called out. "Now hit me back before I hit you again."
"I'm trying—"
James struck again. Ryan blocked, stumbled slightly, then swung wild.
James sidestepped. "That wasn't a swing, that was a prayer."
"It almost hit you!"
"Almost doesn't count." James tapped Ryan's shoulder with the flat of his blade. "Dead. Again."
Ryan groaned. "How are you this annoying and this good at fighting?"
