Sand scattered beneath Veyne's boots as he surged forward, blade flashing.
"RAAAAH!"
He moved like a champion should—quick, brutal, practiced. His longsword sang through the air with a whisper of polished steel, guided by months of training and years of blood. Muscles rippled, eyes locked on his target. Every step was precise. Every strike aimed to maim.
And Ian—Ian didn't move.
Not until the blade was nearly at his throat.
Shift.
A sidestep. Smooth. Lazy.
Veyne's strike cut through empty air, dragging him forward off-balance. He snarled and spun, twisting the arc of his blade into a wide backswing aimed at Ian's ribs.
Clang!
Ian blocked it—barehanded.
The flat of Veyne's blade met the side of one of Ian's twin daggers. Vowbreaker. The dagger hadn't even been drawn properly. It was half-sheathed, gripped in a reverse hold, like Ian had only bothered to raise it out of politeness.
Veyne recoiled. His arms throbbed.
'What… what kind of strength was that?' He thought.
