"You're good with your swords," Rhys Graves said, his stance balanced and gaze sharpened with a faint flush of focus, "but I feel like something is missing."
He kept his position, and so did Adyr. They had been sparring long enough for both to recognize the other's skill. Technically, they were equals.
Rhys moved with a distinctive rhythm, his drunken twin-dagger style unpredictable, each slash and feint impossible to read in advance. Adyr fought differently—his two blades acted with a kind of independent will, constantly shifting their purpose mid-exchange as if two separate minds were locked inside him.
That was what made him dangerous—but also what kept him from pushing further.
"Yeah," Adyr acknowledged, resetting his stance and nodding once. The realization gnawed at him. Every time they crossed steel, he felt his technique sharpen by a fraction. Yet there was a wall between him and true mastery. No matter how hard he pressed, he couldn't scale it.
