Cecil raised a hand before stepping fully into stance.
"No resonance," he said, voice low but loud enough for every idle knight nearby to hear. "Only swordsmanship. Your hands. Your feet. And your wits."
Dorian nodded once. Silent agreement. He let his sword fall slightly lower in his guard. Center line, right foot forward. No flourish, no drama.
Exhaling as he done so.
Cecil stepped into Vom Tag, the high guard sword angled across his shoulder, point behind his head. His stance was heavier. Rooted. Decades of experience etched into the shape of his knees, the angle of his elbow. This wasn't a dance. It was pressure, constant and measured.
Dorian adjusted his grip.
Silence from all the knights.
Everyone was already placing bets on who would win, would it be a draw, or an utter win?
Then Cecil stepped in a quick probing Oberhau, not full force, but fast and clean, meant to test the boy's reaction.
Clang, Dorian met it edge on, blade vertical. The force pushed him back a step, but he didn't break.
Cecil chuckled under his breath. "Not bad."
Dorian didn't speak. He circled left, leading with his shoulder, keeping the tip of his sword in low thrust range.
Cecil advanced again, this time a feint to the high right and then real pressure to the lower left, a cut to the thigh, a move meant to disable. Tactical. Real.
Dorian dropped his guard fast and caught the low strike on the flat, twisting his hips to redirect it. His left hand shot forward to grab Cecil's wrist, but Cecil pivoted out cleanly, boot stomping near Dorian's foot to make him flinch.
Dorian didn't.
He answered with a diagonal rising cut Zornhau Ort edge coming up at an angle toward Cecil's unguarded armpit. Cecil leaned back just enough. The blade kissed the fabric.
The knights watching stayed silent. This wasn't for show. You could hear the breath control. Hear the weight behind each move. No wasted movement.
Cecil surged in again this time with a brutal thrust right down the line. Dorian turned his body, parried with the strength of his blade, and tried to close the distance. Inside reach.
Not wise.
They locked swords crossed, breathing hard. Dorian shifted his foot behind Cecil's and shoved. Cecil didn't fall. He pivoted with the push and slammed his elbow toward Dorian's temple. Dorian ducked and used the momentum to roll under, breaking the bind.
Cecil was grinning now. "You're learning."
Dorian wiped sweat from his brow. "You're old."
That made Cecil laugh loudly, heartily, before snapping his blade forward again with a vicious horizontal cut. Dorian backed just enough and brought the pommel of his sword up in a tight arc, smashing it against Cecil's fingers mid-swing.
The sword dropped.
Cecil blinked.
Dorian didn't go for a final blow. He stepped back and let the silence sit.
Cecil looked down at his hand. Flexed the fingers. Shook it once.
"Smart," he muttered.
Dorian just stared at him, sweat trailing down the side of his face, breathing steady, body taut.
Cecil bent and picked up his sword.
"We're not resonance," he repeated, holding the weapon casually now. "And yet, you fight like a man with something to lose."
Dorian lifted his blade again. "I do."
Cecil smirked.
"Come now, Valerius."
***
The second round started with less ceremony. No declarations. No stances.
Just a sharp inhale, and they were on each other again.
Cecil came in first, using a tight vertical cut to pressure the center. But Dorian didn't block this time; he moved. Slipped right under the arc of the blade, twisting his core with a dancer's precision, hand sliding across Cecil's forearm as he pushed the strike wide.
Then came the kick.
A sharp, heel driven snap to Cecil's ribs, clean contact.
The old man staggered back a step.
Dorian didn't pause. He launched forward low to the ground, knees bent deep, dragging his sword's tip across the marble before dragging it up in a reckless, unconventional uppercut. Too fast to be classic form. It looked wrong, chaotic even.
Why? Simple. By dragging the blade, he dropped lower, coiled tighter, and torque loaded through his hips like a spring. When he came up, it wasn't clean, but it hit harder than clean ever could.
Cecil caught it but barely, the blade sliding along his own with a grating screech. His arms shook. That had weight behind it.
"You're not fighting like a swordsman," he growled.
"I'm not," Dorian muttered. "I fight to win."
He pivoted mid-sentence, leg sweeping in a wide arc. It was a dirty move. Old knight's knees weren't made for sudden side rolls. Cecil had to jump, and when he did, Dorian flipped, using both palms to launch himself over, landing behind Cecil in a controlled crouch.
It was the new generation. It was only going to get more surprising from here.
This generation was..
Too agile.
Cecil turned, blade up, but Dorian was already airborne again, a sideways vault off the decorative stone column, slicing downward with momentum that sent cracks through the flagstone when their blades met.
The sheer force dropped Cecil to one knee.
Dorian landed, panting, blade still extended, eyes wild, not feral, but focused. Honed.
That pause was shattered by the distant sound of crying. Sharp. Repetitive. Three tiny, desperate wails echoed from the upper-floor windows of the estate.
They both turned.
Dorian didn't hesitate, sword dropped from his hand without thought, clattering behind him as he ran.
Cecil stayed back a second longer. Just breathing. Just watching. Then he followed.
Inside the main hall, they passed the knights at the door, who opened it wide without question. Dorian was already halfway up the steps when Cecil stepped in behind him.
The cries were louder now, shrill, overlapping, piercing the quiet warmth of the morning estate.
Dorian flung the bedroom door open, hair damp with sweat, shirt half-torn from the clash.
The nurses turned in surprise. One of them, Fatima, was rocking Cassius gently while trying to shush the girls.
"They're just being babies," she said softly. "They'll settle down."
Cedric was sitting beside the crib, holding a little cloth toy, looking worried.
The knight appointed to him stood at the window watching Cedric until Dorian signaled him away.
Cassius let out one more cry.
Dorian stood and crossed to Fatima, gently brushing his fingers over Cassius's small chest. The boy gurgled, a soft, calm settling over him.
One of the girls hiccuped. The other fell back to sleep.
Dorian, realizing that he was no longer needed, left Cecil behind in the room and went down the stairs. The entire reasoning behind that was because Cecil came after all to see the kids and Selene, but as Dorian reached the bottom of the stairs, he was met by Cecil's face staring at him from below with crossed arms, then as he stood up fully and walked a single step, he vanished to almost directly in front of Dorian, smirking.
Cecil breaks the tension, "You've gotten stronger," he said quietly. "Much… over a short time."
Dorian didn't look at him.
Didn't blink.
Didn't speak for a moment.
Just stared up the stairs to the rest of the house, to Selene, to everything waiting beyond the bedroom.
Then, in a voice cold and firm, stripped of pageantry, he said:
"I am the White Wolf."
And with that, the house returned to quiet.