Leon's forearm burned with every swing.
Not from the duel—he'd gotten used to that pain—but from the hundred plus strikes he'd thrown since dawn. The East Yard was dead quiet, the kind of quiet that usually meant people were either still asleep or smart enough to stay inside. Leon was neither.
His blade sliced through the air again. Clean. No resistance. He reset his stance.
Again.
And again.
And again.
A shape shifted near the edge of the yard. He didn't stop. Boots crunched before the voice followed.
"Didn't you already prove your point yesterday?"
Fena.
He kept his eyes forward. "Not enough."
"Marcus's neck might disagree."
He adjusted his grip and stepped back to his mark. "He got back up."
She stepped into the light—no sword, no training gear, just a long black coat and the kind of calm that made cold irrelevant.
"You're bleeding."
Leon glanced down. Knuckles split open. Barely noticed. "Good. It means I'm doing it right."
