The training yard buzzed with murmurs as students and instructors alike gathered around the sparring circle.
At its center stood a girl no older than fifteen, her blue hair catching the sunlight like threads of spun glass.
Her sword lay at her feet, its tip embedded lightly in the dirt, as if forgotten. Yet, no one dared to look away.
Arlene Veyra's opponent—a senior swordsman known for his relentless strikes—charged forward, blade raised high.
The crowd leaned in, anticipation crackling in the air. But Arlene didn't move. Not yet. Her azure eyes tracked the attacker's every step, calm and calculating, even as he closed the distance between them.
Fssh!
The man swung downward, aiming to end the match in one decisive blow.
Only then did Arlene act.
In a blur of motion, she bent low, her hand brushing the hilt of her sword.
With a sharp tug, the blade sang free from the earth, slicing upward in an arc so swift it seemed to warp the very air around it.
