…

Carefully, quietly, without a single break in either stance, they circled one another. Dante, usually a blinding whirl of spinning wood and twisting limbs, knew better than to rush into this. Against some opponents patience was the only option.

He could probably get away with initiating a quick exchange and separating, but he was also keenly aware of the rumor surrounding this particular woman. She was vicious, skilled, and beyond all else she was fast enough to live up to her nickname.

That name had come about partially from her incredible three-attribute magic. Wind, water, and lightning all heeded her call and obeyed her. She was the embodiment of a storm, made all the more fearsome by her stoic demeanor and lightning-quick movement. She brandished two wooden training swords, both curved to better serve her slashing style of combat. 

Dante was fast. He knew that objectively. Still, he had heard enough from gossip and news bulletins from the Collective to be wary of Ophelia’s speed. After another few steps and tense breaths, his speculation proved true.

Ophelia lunged at him, her wooden blades coming for him in an outwards cross-cut in an attempt to throw him off. If the two blades came from the same direction Dante could have used the long haft of his spear to catch them both before countering. This cross-cut made that impossible. If he blocked one, the other would land a strike.

She’s smarter than most, he admired while barely ducking and spinning beneath one of the upward slicing blades. He used the momentum to attempt to flank her and struck out with a kick, but Ophelia leapt back and took another stance.

Seeing that she was as quick as he had feared, Dante began running through his options. I could try baiting her, but something tells me that won’t work the way I want it to. Maybe I… No, I just need to rely on the reach advantage of my spear. 

They clashed again, and this time he blocked one strike with the spear and attempted to catch her other wrist with an outstretched hand. She landed a kick in his abdomen and separated slightly before continuing the exchange.

As it turned out, they were rather evenly matched when magic wasn’t involved. They continued to clash and separate. Ophelia attempted to close distance inside his spear’s effective range while Dante worked to keep her at bay with long, whirling slashes that cut off her movement. He frequently found himself holding the spear in only one hand to use it almost like a whip. It was a slight overextension, but also a hallmark of his personal style. She punished him for it a few times, but he also landed a few ringing blows on her in that way.

He danced and spun and struck like a venomous snake while she shot from place to place in linear flashes of lightning, her swords the cutting wind and torrential rain. The melody and counterpoint they crafted might have been a strange juxtaposition for outside observers, but to them it was beautiful. Like experienced ballroom dancers, they alternated who led. Some exchanges favored one or the other, but there was always a tenuous balance.

That first bout lasted longer than either of them had probably expected. It was a long and grueling contest until Dante finally caught her in a trap. 

After a particularly heated exchange and separation, he noted the frustration in Ophelia’s eyes. He felt it too, but he bottled it up and quickly attempted to capitalize. He lowered the tip of his spear slightly, letting it drift only barely off to one side, then feigned stumbling as he took a stance.

Ophelia leapt at him, that same opening cross-cut coming for him with insane speed. He briefly panicked, then pulled together his thoughts and set his jaw. Just as the blades separated and began their upward arcs, Dante let go of his spear and lunged into a forward roll. He passed beneath the strikes, rolled once, and came to his feet just behind and to the left of Ophelia. He spun quickly on his feet and used the momentum to deliver a right hook to her cheek from behind before wrapping his arm around her neck and locking it in place with his other arm. 

Jumping slightly, he wrapped his legs around her torso and used his own bodyweight to drag her to the dirt. She struggled fiercely, first with her swords and then with her bare hands as she tried to claw at him. 

As her movements grew more and more wild, the hair on the back of Dante’s neck began to stand up and he heard a crackling in the air around them. Ophelia was nearly screaming in exertion, but as the crackling reached a fever pitch she suddenly stiffened and went still. 

Calmly, almost ritualistically, she reached up and tapped his arm twice. He had won.

He untangled himself from her then and rose to his feet with his heart pounding in his ears. Wheeling his shoulder to try loosening it, he looked around the training yard only to see a crowd of spectators had formed. He had been too caught up in sparring to notice, but enough time had passed for his soldiers to return from their meal. The four mages stood to one side as well, and even Dante’s guards and attendants had joined the audience ring around where they had been fighting.

The yard was silent. As Dante looked dumbly toward the crowd, they did the same to him and Ophelia. Uncomfortable, Dante moved to help the captain to her feet. She gratefully accepted, and as he pulled her up a low murmur began. Another moment passed and the murmur grew louder until one of his soldiers broke the atmosphere with a shout of “Did you see that?! He won! He bloody won!”

The soldiers began cheering, making Dante blush. They seemed proud of their prince. Proud of his victory over this much-rumored foe, proud of his cunning tactic to seal the win, proud to serve with him as their commander. Dante did not begrudge them their celebration and almost felt proud himself as his guards and attendants and even the mages who were obviously smitten with him joined in the cheering.

Almost.

They could feel pride. They could feel awe or reverence or whatever they wanted to feel in this moment. That didn’t change the truth. Dante had felt something at the end of that fight that he had only felt a handful of times before: raw mortal terror. He could only compare it to seeing that monstrosity of a priestess, that aberration calling herself Charlotte and walking in human skin, burn through his loyal men like kindling doused in oil.

He had been mere moments from death. If Ophelia hadn’t caught herself in time, Dante would have been fried in his metal shell of armor and dead before anyone could treat his wounds or even so much as shout for help. The genius prince, unparalleled warrior and pride of the Andrade military, slain in a heartbeat by the lightning-shaped whim of some magical force of nature.

I can’t keep going like this, he thought as he put on his princely smile and waved to his gathered soldiers. I need a way to fight back.

He kept up his facade and gracefully accepted praise from his men before continuing about his day and his training. Even if he was scared shitless, Ophelia was the best training partner he could ever hope for. He needed to build endurance for the festivities, and he needed to sharpen his skills to ensure victory. 

They took a brief respite, discussing the bout and what they each needed to work on, then continued sparring long into the night. Ophelia was a phenomenal opponent who continued to push him to his limits, but he could see that she was being more reserved after their first match. She had somewhat detached herself, and Dante would’ve commented on it if he didn’t think it was the only thing keeping him alive. She was likely trying to keep her emotions in check, and he was extremely grateful for that.

When he returned to his chambers that night he sent a runner to his father before washing, reading the reply, and leaving to meet the king. He reported how the day’s training had gone in detail, including the nearly disastrous end of that first match. He followed up his report with a request, and it took but a moment for the king to heartily agree.

I must find a way to fight back.