The yard felt smaller once they were told to fight in it.
The ordered lines broke apart into loose clusters, spacing uneven and uncertain, everyone suddenly aware of how close other's bodies felt when nothing was scripted anymore. Practice swords were handed out again, their wood worn smooth by years of impact, honest in their weight. Rain tested his grip once, then stopped himself before he could adjust it again.
Captain Theron stood off to the side with his arms folded, saying nothing, watching the way people shifted rather than how they stood.
One of the senior drill instructors paced along the edge of the yard before speaking, his voice carrying easily without needing to rise.
"Pair up," he said, already turning away, "rotate when told, no finishing blows, and keep your force and your footing under control-lose either, and the bout ends."
A few uneasy glances passed between the trainees, but no one argued.
The first bouts began rough.
Too much strength, too much urgency, swings that committed too hard and left bodies open in ways no one had meant to reveal. Wood cracked against wood, boots scraped dirt, and someone stumbled before catching themselves with a laugh that came out sharper than they probably intended.
Rain was paired early.
The boy across from him was broader, older by a year or two, confidence sitting heavy in the way he rolled his shoulders and planted his feet. Rain bowed slightly out of habit, earning a brief pause before the other boy nodded back, unsure but willing.
They moved.
The first strike came hard and obvious, the kind meant to establish dominance more than land. Rain stepped back instead of blocking, letting the wooden blade cut through the space where his shoulder had been. The second followed faster, frustration sharpening its edge, and this time Rain caught it, the impact jolting through his arms and settling deep in his elbows like a warning.
He didn't counter.
The boy frowned and pressed again, breathing harder now, pushing forward as if momentum alone could force something open. Rain gave ground in small, measured steps, stretching the distance just enough to stay safe, aware of eyes on him-not judging, just noticing. When the next strike came, Rain turned his wrists and guided it aside, letting the boy's own weight pull him half a step too far forward.
"Enough," the instructor called, stepping in before either of them could adjust.
They separated, both breathing harder than they'd expected. Rain bowed again, and this time the other boy returned it more slowly, his confidence quieter than before.
The next matches were louder.
Mordred went first, swinging like the ground owed him something, wide and heavy, driving his opponent back with sheer aggression until the instructor stepped in and cut it short with a sharp word.
Zedric laughed his way through his bout, flashy and reckless, grinning even when a strike clipped his shoulder hard enough to sting.
Stephen fought carefully, absorbing more than he gave, jaw clenched as he focused on staying upright and controlled.
Rain watched whenever he wasn't fighting, storing shapes and habits instead of outcome-who rushed, who hesitated, who overcorrected after a mistake. He noticed how often people held their breath without realizing it, how tension showed itself long before it ever turned into movement.
The rotations continued.
By the time Elara stepped forward, the yard had changed again.
Sweat darkened collars. Dust clung to boots and sleeves. Movements slowed, not just from exhaustion, but from caution. People had learned how easy it was to get hit when no one was pulling their blows.
Elara's earlier matches were clean.
she didn't waste motion, every strike placed with intent, every step returning her blade naturally to guard. When something went wrong, she corrected mid-movement without panic, adjusting without breaking her rhythm.
When Rain's name was called alongside hers, the noise around them softened-not silence, just less of it.
They faced each other in the center of the yard.
Elara raised her practice sword, posture straight, eyes steady.
Rain lifted his own blade a moment later.
Elara tested him first, a precise strike meant to measure distance rather than land and Rain shifted back to match her pace without thinking about it. Another followed, then a third, each one clean and slightly different, probing instead of pressing, until the fourth came in sharper and Rain blocked it, the impact traveling through his arms and settling somewhere deeper than pain, more weight than shock, forcing him to adjust his stance instinctively just to stay balanced.
Elara stepped closer instead of striking harder, shortening the space between them and forcing Rain to respond rather than retreat, the blade crossing again as their movements began to align in a way the earlier bouts never had, tightening without either of them overcommitting. Rain didn't rush, listening to the scrape of her boots, the change in her breathing, the subtle tightening of her grip before a committed strike, letting her lead not because he couldn't interrupt her rhythm, but because he didn't need to.
She shifted suddenly, changing angles, catching Rain's blade and sliding past it in the same motion, her wooden sword stopping just short of his shoulder.
"Point," the unit leader said.
They reset, and this time Rain stepped in, closing the space with measured intent rather than speed.
He mirrored her movement, blade meeting hers before the strike could fully form, redirecting instead of stopping it. The exchange tightened, their motions overlapping, neither of them overcommitting, neither willing to give ground easily.
For a brief moment, it felt like sparring and more like listening to the same rhythm from opposite sides.
Then Elara broke it, stepping back cleanly and lowering her blade.
"That's enough," Theron said.
Rain hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until it left him all at once, his chest loosening as Elara met his eyes and gave a small nod-not a victory, not a praise, just recognition-before they stepped apart.
The yard slowly found its noise again, voices rising as tension bled off into tired laughter and low complaints. Rain adjusted the bell at his side out of habits, feeling its quiet weights settle differently than before