Rhazek moves to counter, and for a moment the yard becomes sound: iron cutting air, boots biting dirt, the hard crack of blade against infernal forearm guard. Corin should not hold ground against him. Not like this. Rhazek is restraining himself, obviously, but restraint from Rhazek still ought to flatten most men into regret and medical theory.
Corin lasts thirty-seven seconds before Rhazek disarms him.
I count because numbers are still useful little traitors.
The first time I watched them spar, Corin lasted twelve.
He bends, picks up one of the blades, and sees me watching. “If you have come to admire me, please form an orderly queue.”
I walk into the yard. “It would be a very short queue.”
“Cruel woman.”
“Fast man.”
His smile flickers.
Rhazek looks from me to Corin, and I feel the bond sharpen with his attention. He has noticed too. Of course he has. Rhazek notices disturbances in power the way other people notice weather.
Corin twirls one blade. “Good diet.”
I look pointedly at the churned earth where his boots carved a trench from a dodge no human should have completed. “Must be a hell of a breakfast.”
“Porridge. Very empowering.”
Rhazek reaches for a practice rod from the rack. “Again.”
Corin groans. “Do demons ever learn the phrase ‘well done’?”
“Yes.”
“Have you used it?”
“No.”
“Splendid. Personal growth remains elusive.”
They square off again, and this time Corin does better. He meets Rhazek’s first strike instead of evading, his iron blade ringing against the guard with enough force to jar his arm but not break his stance. Rhazek’s eyes narrow. Corin notices and grins, which is either courage or an advanced death wish wearing charm.
“Careful,” Rhazek says.
“How tender. I’m moved.”
“I was speaking to your right foot.”
Corin glances down half a second too late. His heel slips in loose dirt. Rhazek pulls back immediately, but Corin twists to recover and scrapes his forearm along the edge of his own iron blade.
The cut opens red.
Small, clean, ordinary.
Then it seals.
Seconds. Maybe less.
Skin knits from both sides as if pulled by invisible thread. Blood beads once, dark against his pale arm, then the wound closes beneath it, leaving only a faint pink line that fades while I am still staring.
Corin lowers his arm.
