Sylra flickers forward, her movements blurred by wind Essentia. Her opening salvo—a flurry of jabs—sends gusts rippling toward Towan. He pivots, forearms deflecting strikes with precision, but each blocked hit rattles his bones with unnatural force.
She's faster up close than I thought. I always believed she relied on ranged strikes... but this? She's sharp, relentless.
“You can move better,” she chides, a smirk playing on her lips. “Am I distracting you?”
Towan doesn’t bite. Instead, he angles his body to minimize exposure, reading the rhythm of her attacks. A wind-enhanced roundhouse kick arcs toward his ribs, but he sidesteps, seizing the moment to lunge. His fist grazes her sleeve as she whooshes backward, carried by a sudden updraft.
I barely touched her. That wind support—she's using it to break rhythm. She’s reading me too easily.
----------------------------------------
Sylra retreats, conjuring a localized cyclone to scatter debris into Towan’s eyes. He narrows his gaze, newly honed senses filtering the chaos—the shift in air pressure, the faint whistle of Essentia.
Stay calm. Feel the flow. She’s setting a trap.
He anticipates her next strike: a diagonal slash of wind. Ducking low, he surges forward, fists a blur. For a heartbeat, they clash in close quarters. Towan’s elbow strike nears her ribs, but Sylra dissolves into a breeze, reappearing behind him.
No way—she shifted her entire stance mid-exchange?
“Almost had me,” she murmurs, her breath brushing his ear. A gust slams into his back, sending him skidding.
She's mastering wind at a level I hadn’t seen before... I thought I understood her style, but she’s full of surprises.
----------------------------------------
Towan feigns fatigue, lowering his guard. Sylra’s eyes narrow—too obvious. Instead of taking the bait, she spirals upward, gathering Essentia into a humming vortex.
She’s not falling for the basics anymore. She’s seen through my patterns. But this time...
The arena quakes as she releases it, a tornado hurtling toward him. Towan channels his own energy, grounding himself, but his Essentia flickers—imperfect, unstable. The wind tears at his stance, and he staggers.
Not yet. I can hold this... just a bit more.
----------------------------------------
Sylra descends, a streak of silver and green. Towan, sensing her trajectory, pivots and unleashes a palm strike—aimed where she’ll land. But Sylra twists mid-air, her body contorting like a leaf in a storm.
Impossible—she adapted mid-strike?
Her hand grazes his throat, wind Essentia crackling at her fingertips. “Checkmate,” she whispers.
The vortex dissipates. Towan kneels, chest heaving, as Sylra offers a hand.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
“You’re getting close,” she says, her tone softer now. “But you still telegraph your traps.”
He accepts, grinning ruefully.
“Next time, I’ll read your tells.”
“(She’s sharper, faster, and more cunning than I expected in close combat. She could be perfectly a martial artist instead of a wind essentia user…)”
As the moon’s pale glow surrendered to the golden hues of dawn, Towan and Sylra walked side by side, their footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestone path. The cool morning air carried the faint scent of dew-kissed grass, and the first rays of sunlight painted the horizon in streaks of amber and rose. The aftermath of their spar lingered in the silence between them, a quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken respect they held for one another.
Towan broke the stillness, his voice tinged with admiration. “I didn’t expect you to be so good in close combat. Last time I saw you fight, you handled Jyn easily without even getting into a heavy exchange.” He glanced at her, his dark eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and newfound respect. “You made it look effortless.”
Sylra gave a small shrug, her expression as calm as the still surface of a lake. The faintest hint of a smile played on her lips, though her gaze remained fixed on the path ahead. “I’ve always trained in martial arts, even before I could use Essentia. It’s just that I rarely need to rely on it.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a flicker of pride in her words—a subtle acknowledgment of the years of discipline and effort she had poured into her craft.
Towan’s eyes lit up, his steps quickening as he matched her pace. “Does that mean I’m strong enough for you to use it against me?” His voice carried a hopeful edge, the eagerness of a competitor who thrived on challenge.
Sylra turned her head, her silver hair catching the sunlight as she flashed him a confident grin. “No.”
Her answer hit like a sudden gust of wind, sharp and unyielding. Towan slowed, his brow furrowing as he blinked in surprise. “Oh.” The word came out flat, his disappointment palpable.
“But,” she continued, her tone softening just enough to take the sting out of her earlier words, “since you’re a martial artist, I figured it was only respectful to show you what I’ve got. Besides,” she added, her grin returning, “it’s more fun this way.”
She was lying. The outcome would have remained the same, but the difficulty would have shifted significantly had she given Towan any breathing room. It was a mistake she hadn’t made—and Towan hadn’t noticed. Her control over the fight had been absolute, her every move calculated to keep him on the defensive. She had danced just out of reach, her wind Essentia weaving an invisible net that left him no room to unleash his full potential. It was a masterful display of strategy, one that spoke volumes about her skill and experience.
“Wanna go get breakfast now?” Sylra asked, her tone casual, as if the spar had been nothing more than a morning warm-up.
“Sure!” Towan replied, quickly shaking off his disappointment as they turned toward the cafeteria. His voice was cheerful, but his mind was already racing, replaying the fight in vivid detail.
As they walked, the weight of realization settled over him. Now that I think about it… I barely used any of my moves. She totally controlled the pace of the fight and never gave me the chance to use my strongest attacks. I got played. The thought was equal parts frustrating and awe-inspiring. He stole a glance at Sylra, her posture relaxed and her expression serene. She was a force of nature, both on and off the battlefield, and he couldn’t help but admire her for it.
The cafeteria loomed ahead, its warm lights spilling out into the morning gloom. Towan’s stomach growled, a reminder of the physical toll their spar had taken. Yet, as they stepped inside, the aroma of freshly baked bread and sizzling meats filling the air, his thoughts remained tethered to the fight. He had lost, yes, but he had also gained something far more valuable—a clearer understanding of the gap he needed to bridge. And, perhaps, a renewed determination to one day stand on equal footing with the woman walking beside him.
Sylra glanced at him, her eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re quiet. Still sulking?”
Towan shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“How I’m going to beat you next time.”
She laughed, the sound light and melodic. “Good luck with that.”