The training hall seemed a world of half-light.
Dim, muted lamps left long ribbons of darkness pooling across the floor, each shadow swaying faintly. The dueling platform stood in the center, its edges traced in a faint blue glow—an island of clarity surrounded by an ocean of dark.
Lucian and Iralis faced each other across that island.
He held a steel training sword, fingers curled tight around the grip. She stood unarmed, the black steel mask hiding her expression but not the calm certainty in her posture.
"What do you mean by that?" Lucian asked, his voice low but edged, like he wasn't sure whether to take her words as threat or insult.
"Fighting you normally wouldn't be fair," she replied without hesitation. "It'd be a waste of our time. So I'll make it easier—if you can graze my mask even once, I'll consider it your win."
The words landed like a slap.
Lucian's eyes narrowed. "Is this your attempt to mock me?"
Though her face was hidden, he could feel the smirk in her tone.
"No," she said simply. "It's pity. Nothing more."
A humorless breath escaped him. His frown smoothed into something unreadable.
"A jab at my pride, then," he murmured. "Lucky for you, I don't have that. Protect that mask."
And then he moved.
No warning. No measured step. Just an explosion of speed—boots pounding the platform, blade arcing down toward her face.
The strike hit nothing.
Iralis dissolved into darkness, her form melting into the floor like ink into water. The sword struck the platform with a dull thunk, the impact reverberating up his arms.
The shadows shifted, alive, taunting him.
Vashara's gift, he thought grimly. The memories stirred—Vashara, Goddess of Shadows, the fourth god. Her chosen could slip into the absence of light, walk its currents, and strike from where eyes could not follow.
This hall, half-swallowed by dimness, was her kingdom.
Lucian straightened, blade loose in his grip, scanning the darkness. "A bit early to be hiding, isn't it?"
A soft laugh floated behind him.
He turned sharply, catching her shape solidifying at the far edge of the platform—like she'd been painted into the black and had simply stepped forward from it.
"Really?" she said, her tone airy and amused. "You should've known better than to think I'd stand still for you."
His jaw tightened. He lunged again, blade sweeping toward her mask—only for her to dissolve once more into shadow.
"You're too predictable," her voice teased from nowhere and everywhere at once. "You won't even get close like that."
Lucian exhaled slowly. Blind rushes would only make him her prey. She moved like smoke—never where you struck, always where you weren't looking.
He closed his eyes.
The hall was silent except for the rhythm of his own breathing. He let the sound of his heartbeat fade until only the subtler noises remained—the faint displacement of air, the almost imperceptible shuffle of cloth.
Her power didn't grant instant teleportation. She still had to move through the dark, and movement left traces—tiny currents that whispered direction if you knew how to listen.
The whisper came. Left.
He struck without hesitation. Steel cut through shadow and caught. A sharp hiss broke the silence as his blade hooked the edge of her cloak. But before he could press the advantage, she slipped free, melting away like mist before the sun.
Her voice came from the far side now, warm with approval but sharpened with challenge. "Well done. You've improved. But it's still not enough."
He ignored the bait. His grip tightened. Sweat clung to his temples, but his focus didn't waver. Cloak wasn't mask. Cloak meant nothing.
The shadows thickened, bending subtly toward him—predator's patience. She was readying to strike.
Lucian braced.
She erupted from the dark behind him, hand flashing toward his sword arm. He twisted, steel ringing as he deflected her grasp, but her speed drove him back a step. She vanished again, a flicker of movement gone before his counterstrike landed.
The duel became a rhythm—strike, vanish, reappear, evade. It was less a battle and more a war of attrition.
Minutes stretched like hours. His muscles burned, but his mind stayed razor-edged. She wasn't just testing his reflexes—she was weighing his patience, his adaptability, his ability to fight an enemy who rewrote the battlefield with every breath.
And then—there.
A shadow lagged by a fraction of a heartbeat. An afterimage she didn't pull back fast enough.
Lucian lunged, blade snapping forward with surgical precision. Steel kissed the mask—
—and the mask unraveled into vapor. An illusion.
Her chuckle came from behind him, low and amused. "Almost. But not really."
Lucian turned, lowering his sword just enough to reset his stance. His chest rose and fell in measured breaths.
"Again," he said. No frustration. No mockery. Just calm, dangerous intent.
Iralis tilted her head. The blue glow at the platform's edge flared faintly, shadows coiling tighter around her like it were sentient.
"Good," she murmured. "I was hoping you'd say that."