Thud!
Alaric hit the padded floor hard, air driven from his lungs.
He rolled instinctively, coming up in a defensive crouch, but Nyra was already there, her hand stopping inches from his throat.
"Dead," she said simply, pulling back.
Alaric let himself collapse onto his back, breathing hard.
Sweat dripped down his face, his shirt soaked through. They'd been at this for over an hour, hand-to-hand combat, no essence techniques, pure skill and physicality.
And Nyra had won. Again.
"You're improving," she said, which was probably the closest thing to praise she ever gave. "Your reaction time is faster."
"Still not fast enough." Alaric pushed himself to sitting, wincing at various bruises forming. "You're holding back and I'm still getting demolished."
"If I wasn't holding back, you'd be unconscious." Nyra moved to retrieve a towel and water flask from the bench against the wall. "But yes. You're getting better."
