The training hall that morning was alive with the sharp clang of metal and the sound of heavy breaths. Sweat dampened the polished wooden floor, while sunlight streamed in through the high windows, casting silhouettes of two figures locked in combat at the center of the arena.
Pierre exhaled slowly, lifting his sword into a ready stance. Across from him stood Elizabeth Bathory—her posture upright, expression composed, but eyes gleaming with something feral. In both hands, she gripped two blades forged from her own solidified blood.
Their sparring match had been going on for nearly fifteen minutes.
But more than her technique, what surprised Pierre was the simple fact that Elizabeth wanted to train at all.
Just hours earlier, when Pierre had entered the training hall for his usual morning routine, he hadn't expected to find Elizabeth right behind him.
"Elizabeth?" he asked, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
