Azael stepped onto the platform and picked up the practice sword from the rack at the edge.
It was balanced reasonably well — not exceptional, the kind of weapon that a training hall keeps in bulk supply, functional and honest. He turned it once in his grip, feeling the weight settle into his hand, and then looked up at his opponent.
Elon Suks was already on his side of the platform. He was broader than Azael by a noticeable margin, solid through the shoulders and chest, the kind of build that made people assume his fighting style led with power. He held his practice sword with the grip of someone who had used one regularly. Rank fifty. He hadn't gotten there without something real behind him.
They regarded each other briefly.
"Ready?" Elon asked. Direct. No particular ceremony about it.
"Whenever you are," Azael said.
Elon came forward.
