DRAGONA

Chapter 10 – Aric

The mask always smelled faintly of resin and old sweat, no matter how many times it was scrubbed clean. I settled it over my face, feeling the familiar constriction around my jaw and the way it narrowed the world to a small, bright rectangle of piste ahead of me.

Across from me, Aurelia adjusted her own mask with precise fingers. Even hidden behind the steel mesh, she looked composed. Like she always did. But I knew her well enough to see the tension in her shoulders, the way she rolled her wrist just a little too many times.

This was the one place she didn't have the advantage over me.

The referee raised a hand, voice crisp. "En garde."

I lowered my body into position—heels aligned, knees bent, épée angled forward. My heart was steady. This was mine.

"Prêt?"

I drew a slow breath, feeling the hush ripple down the sidelines. My fingers tightened on the grip.

"Allez!"

We moved at the same time—her blade darting out, a testing thrust toward my shoulder. I parried without thinking, steel ringing against steel. The impact vibrated up my arm. She recovered, lunged again, faster this time, but I was already shifting weight, sliding back a half-step.

Aurelia was strong, precise. But fencing was more than aggression. It was patience. Timing. Knowing when to hold back, and when to strike.

Her next attack came high, angling for my mask. I deflected it down and riposted—quick, sharp, a flick of my wrist that caught her sleeve. The sensor lights along the piste flashed red.

"Halte!" the referee called. "Point—Aric."

I heard her exhale as we reset. She was competitive. Even when it was me across from her, she hated to lose. But there was no fire in her hand here—only the blade.

We returned to en garde. My body felt warm and focused. This was the closest I ever came to feeling like I belonged—when I was here, with the épée in my hand, when my mind was nothing but angles and timing and the clean edge of purpose.

"Allez!"

She feinted low, and I followed, shifting left. But this time she didn't overextend. Instead, she twisted her wrist in a tight arc, a move so quick I almost missed it, and the point of her blade slipped under my guard and tapped my side clean.

The lights flickered blue.

"Halte!" the referee called. "Point—Aurelia."

A low cheer rippled from a few onlookers. She lowered her épée slightly, just enough that I could see the edge of a smile under her mask.

I blew out a breath. "Nice," I muttered, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

We reset. My heart thudded a little faster now. She was the only person here who could take a point from me.

"En garde… prêt… allez!"

The next exchange was faster—her blade striking high, low, high again, testing me from every angle. I deflected each strike, feeling sweat starting to slick the handle in my palm. She lunged, and I sidestepped, parried, and riposted in a single breath. My point tapped her shoulder a heartbeat before she recovered.

"Halte!" Another point for me.

We reset again. My arm was starting to ache, but the ache felt good—proof I was still here, still in control.

"Allez!"

She pressed me hard across the piste—four, five strikes in a row. My shoulder burned with the effort of parrying them all. But then she overcommitted by a fraction, and I saw my opening. I lunged forward, blade extended, and felt the satisfying jolt of contact against her chest protector.

The lights flashed red. The referee's voice cut through the hush: "Match—Aric."

I straightened, my breath coming fast. Across from me, Aurelia lifted her mask. Her hair was damp with sweat, curls clinging to her cheeks. She looked tired, but her eyes were steady.

"No fire today?" I teased as I lifted my mask.

"Wouldn't be fair," she said, exhaling. "Besides, you'd still find a way to win."

I grinned despite myself. Around us, the noise of the field returned—whistles, applause, the clatter of other matches. But for a moment, it was just the two of us, breathing hard, each of us knowing exactly what the other had given.