The circle widened as Temari stepped into the sand, the fan opening in her hands with a hiss of metal and cloth. The sound alone carried weight, a reminder of the power packed into those arcs. She spun it once, testing its balance, before settling into a stance that spoke of confidence born from hard work and experience.
Isan moved opposite her, measured and calm, sandals crunching over the hot grit.
"Don't you dare hold back.", Temari said, lips curved in a half-smile that was more threat than joke.
"I wasn't planning to.", his voice was flat, but his eyes stayed fixed on hers.
They circled once, twice, the sand shifting beneath their steps. Then Temari moved. The fan swept low first, a wide arc aimed at his legs. Isan shifted back, letting the edge skim the dust where his shin had been. He moved in quickly, closing the gap before the fan could rise again. Temari twisted, steel snapping up as a shield, and his palm struck the metal with a thud. The shock rattled through his bones.
She pushed him back, stepping lightly, and the fan snapped open fully now, its wide surface catching the sun, shadows dancing across the yard. She swung it overhead, forcing him to roll aside as sand and grit burst upward.
Daiana let out a low whistle.
"Show-off.", but her eyes never left the fight, sharp with interest.
Shira's fists flexed unconsciously, his body mirroring the movements as though he too were in the spar. His gaze stayed locked on Isan, every shift memorized.
Sen's face betrayed nothing, but her brown eyes tracked every detail with surgical precision. Yome leaned forward slightly, her lips parted, listening not just to the blows but to the scrape of feet against sand, the hiss of the fan through air.
Temari pressed again, sweeping wide to herd him, but Isan didn't yield ground easily. He moved in angles, sliding to her weaker side, feinting with a jab that forced her guard high before he pivoted low. His hand darted for her wrist, nearly catching it, but she twisted free with a grin that showed the first flicker of excitement.
A little laugh escaped her lips while she surged forward again, fan snapping shut to strike like a club. He blocked with his forearm, the impact biting into muscle, but he didn't flinch. His other hand swept toward her ribs, only to find the fan reopening mid-motion, forcing him back once more.
The clash continued in short bursts, her sweeping arcs of force against his sharp, economical strikes. He never wasted a movement. She never slowed her tempo. The sand grew scuffed and torn beneath their feet.
The two of them didn't even seem like they wanted to win against the other, but rather were sucked into their own world.
On the far side of the yard, there was a boy, another trainee, that looked to be a year older than them, he was standing behind a structure while gazing with narrowed eyes at the harmonious and, yet at the same time, fierce, spar between Temari and Isan.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as Temari's laugh genuine and unguarded, reached him. His hands balled into fists, nails digging into flesh as he stared at Isan moving in rhythm with her.
Meanwhile, the spar continued.
The sand hissed beneath their feet as the spar drew on, each movement sharper than the last. Temari's fan sliced the air in wide, punishing arcs, forcing Isan to react or be buried in grit and bruises. Yet Isan gave ground only by inches, his counters precise, his eyes never leaving hers.
She pressed him with a snap of the fan, pivoting on her heel, the edge sweeping high. Isan ducked, rolled into the movement, and came up inside her guard. His hand lashed toward her elbow, had it landed clean, it might have deadened her arm; but Temari twisted, letting the fan fold shut and catching his wrist with a swift trap.
For a heartbeat, their eyes locked, blue-green against dark-brown. The air seemed to still.
Then Isan wrenched free, twisting at the same moment, dragging her momentum off-line. Temari staggered half a step but slammed the fan open again, catching herself with grace.
Dust curled around them in the hot air, rising with every clash. Daiana leaned forward, eyes alight, lips curled in a wolfish grin.
"Come on, Isan, take her down already!"
Shira didn't even blink while watching the spar, fists clenched at his sides, shoulders tight. His lips parted once as if to shout advice, but he stopped himself, watching instead memorizing.
Sen's gaze was steady, unflinching. Her light brown hair clung to her temples where sweat darkened it, but her posture remained perfect, arms folded as though judging form and precision rather than cheering for either side. Her brown eyes flicked between each strike, calculating.
Yome tilted her head, orange-brown eyes sharp and reflective, her fine hair catching the sunlight.
"Neither is giving everything… but neither is holding back."
Temari suddenly surged, snapping the fan downward with enough force to send a spray of sand into Isan's face. The crowd of students let out a chorus of gasps and laughter, a dirty trick, some whispered. Isan blinked, grit burning his eyes, but he didn't falter. He pivoted low, slipping under her guard, and swept his leg toward her ankles.
Temari leapt, clearing the sweep by a hair, landing with the fan already swinging down. Isan hurriedly dodge the incoming strike and thrust his other hand toward her stomach.
It stopped just short, his palm hovering an inch from her. At the same time, the edge of her fan rested lightly against his shoulder, the steel teeth just grazing cloth.
A draw.